Mark and I were married for seven years. I was a 34-year-old freelance graphic designer, and I truly believed our marriage was solid—until the night of his promotion party.
We were “that couple,” always in sync, always hand-in-hand. After years of struggling to conceive, Sophie came along and brought new joy to our lives. She was four when everything changed.
At Mark’s celebration, our daughter pointed at a woman and said, “That’s the lady with the worms!” Confused, I asked what she meant. “In her house. On her bed. Daddy said not to tell you. You’d be upset.”
My stomach dropped.
That woman was Tina, a coworker I’d seen hovering near Mark at past work events. When I confronted him, he brushed it off, claiming Sophie saw curlers and misunderstood. But the lie was already unraveling.
The next day, I met Tina under the guise of planning a party. She didn’t deny anything. “He said it wouldn’t take long once you left,” she said, calm as ever.
I told her she could have him.
Quietly, I filed for divorce. Mark didn’t fight. He moved in with Tina, and now even Sophie avoids visiting when she’s around. Their picture-perfect start has already faded.
As for me, I’m healing. I paint, I sketch, I sleep again. Sophie’s room glows with stars now.
One night, she asked, “Why doesn’t Daddy live with us?”
“Because he lied about the worms,” I said.
She nodded. “Lying is bad.”
“Yes, baby. It is.”
Then she hugged me. “I’m glad we have no worms.”
“Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”
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