At a Café, My Best Friend’s 5-Year-Old Son Saw a Photo of My Husband and Suddenly Shouted, ‘That’s Daddy!’
“It wasn’t like that, Brielle,” he said.
“Stop, Spencer,” I said, gently but firmly. “Please. Don’t ruin this moment by lying again.”
“Is Connor’s daddy… my daddy too?” she asked.
“Yes, and no, sweetheart,” I said.
“You have your… own daddy. And he loves you very much. But he made some big mistakes. And we’re going to be okay. You and me, we’re going to be just fine.”
She shouted slowly, like she believed me. And maybe she did. Kids know more than we ever give them credit for. They see what we miss. They hear the cracks in silence.
Over the next three weeks, I moved with a kind of quiet precision that amazed even me.
I hired a divorce attorney who specialized in asset tracing and hidden accounts. Spencer had been careless there, too.
I froze the accounts. I collected texts, emails, screenshots, timestamps, and everything else that I’d need to build a picture that couldn’t be refuted.
By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late.
He stood there like someone who’d just lost a game he never realized he was playing.
Days later, Nancy finally texted me.
“I never meant to hurt you, Bri.”
Instead, I wrote her a letter. Not for her but for me…
I told her the betrayal wasn’t just the affair, it was every birthday wish, every “how’s motherhood treating you?” text, every “miss you” that now rang cold and hollow.
And then I wrote:
“I hope you become the mother and woman you want to be. But you are no longer welcome in my life. Ever.”
I signed my name. I secured the envelope and I mailed it without a return address.
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