My husband Brian and I were together for 12 years, married for 10. We weren’t religious—church had never been part of our lives. Sundays were for sleeping in, pancakes, and family time with our nine-year-old daughter, Kiara.
So when Brian suddenly suggested going to church, I thought he was joking. He said he was stressed, burned out, and needed community. Wanting to support him, I agreed.
He quickly became comfortable there—same row every week, chatting with church staff, staying after services. It seemed harmless.
Until one Sunday, when he told me to wait in the car while he “used the bathroom.” After ten minutes with no response to my calls, I went back inside. Through a cracked window in the church garden, I saw him talking to a blonde woman.
I heard everything.
He told her he brought his family to church to show her what she’d lost, that he was ready to give her the life she wanted. She shut him down cold—called his behavior obsessive and threatening—and warned him never to contact her again.
The next week, I approached her. Her name was Rebecca. She showed me years of unanswered messages, proof he’d followed her across cities since high school. He’d found the church through her social media and started attending with us—on purpose.
I went home numb.
That night, I confronted Brian. He denied, minimized, then tried to excuse it as “ancient history.” When that failed, he begged.
I told him my lawyer was filing for divorce.
Because it wasn’t just betrayal—I realized Kiara and I were never the destination. We were props in a fantasy that had nothing to do with love.
And I refused to let my daughter grow up thinking this was what love looked like.