My husband Brian and I were together for 12 years, married for 10. We’d never been religious — no church for holidays or even our wedding. Our lives were busy and ordinary. We have a nine-year-old daughter, Kiara. Sundays were for sleeping late, pancakes, cartoons, and errands.
So when Brian casually suggested we try church, I thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. He said he was stressed, burned out, and needed something positive — a family ritual, community maybe. I agreed, hesitant but supportive.
At first, I felt out of place. Brian seemed peaceful and engaged; Kiara doodled through the service. Every week we sat in the same row. Brian mingled after services. It seemed harmless.
Then one Sunday after service he told me to wait in the car while he used the bathroom. He didn’t come back for ten minutes. I went inside and saw him in the garden talking to a woman I didn’t know. Through a partially open window I heard him confess his feelings for her, saying he brought us to church to show her what she’d lost. She told him to stop contacting her or she’d get a restraining order.
I was stunned. Back in the car, Brian acted like nothing happened, claiming he’d just been in the bathroom. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but the next Sunday I found the woman, Rebecca, and she showed me years of messages proving Brian had been obsessively pursuing her since high school.
That night I realized our whole marriage might have been a performance — I wasn’t his destination, just a prop. When I confronted him, he tried to deny it, saying “nothing happened” and that our life together mattered. But I’d seen the truth.
I told him I knew everything and that I was filing for divorce. I refused to let our daughter grow up thinking this was love. I told him to be honest with her and take responsibility.