In order to heal, we have to bring our idealizations down and accept our disappointments.
Here I am on the plane, coming back from my first vacation alone with the kids. I don’t really know how I feel, but I do know that for days now I’ve wanted to write and couldn’t quite find the moment.
So—what do I feel?
For those who haven’t read before: the Friday right before we left on this trip, my ex called me to tell me he wanted to “officialize” his mistress. Of course, he didn’t use those words. He will never openly admit they were lovers. And maybe they didn’t sleep together before we separated—but for me, they were lovers anyway. A lover is many things. It’s not just about sex outside of a marriage.
Having been “that person” myself at some point in life, I can say this clearly: I don’t see myself as a mistress. I see myself as someone who once filled an empty space. But a mistress—the real kind—is the person you fall in love with, the one you start seeing as the holder of truth, the one for whom you leave your family to start a new life. That person becomes more important than your wife, and eventually even more important than your children. Nothing else matters.
I don’t remember if I’ve shared this before, but I found out he had someone almost immediately after we separated. I kept digging because his behavior didn’t make sense. Sometimes I didn’t want to accept it. Other times I wanted confirmation, thinking it would somehow make things easier. I couldn’t figure out who she was, but I checked credit cards, patterns, details—and I knew with certainty that he had someone steady. A real relationship.
In my head, I imagined someone impressive. Someone better than me. Beautiful. Smart. Someone who would make me jealous—someone I could almost understand being replaced by. But when he finally told me who she was, it was a huge disappointment. Again.
What shocked me most was realizing that even in my lowest moment—during his confession—I had still placed him on a pedestal. I assumed he had the ability to choose someone interesting. Instead, he chose someone there was nothing to admire. Someone we both knew well, someone we had even criticized together more than once. My suspicions were right, but the reality was worse. Even with my self-esteem at a low point, I still believe this woman has nothing to offer.
None of this truly surprises me, but it still hurts to accept that my ex isn’t who I once thought he was. In the end, my story turned out to be painfully simple: my husband left me for a coworker. Suddenly, all the things he used to say make sense—about getting married multiple times, pretending to be someone you’re not, chasing experiences you can’t afford, calling it “growth” or “freedom.” It all feels empty. Hollow.
What hurts most is realizing that, deep down, I had already been seeing him this way for years—as someone with very little to give. I stayed anyway. I suffered, for him and for our family. And in the end, he only confirmed what I already knew: it wasn’t worth it.
Now when I look at him, beyond the fact that he generates nothing in me as a man, I don’t believe he has much to offer our kids either. I don’t say this with anger. It feels factual. He doesn’t exercise. He has no hobbies. No clear professional direction. I’m not even sure what he truly likes, because he tends to adapt completely to whoever he’s with.
I keep reminding myself of the most important thing: forgive yourself. I forgive myself. And I keep moving forward.
My best friend—who is basically my sister—tells me it’s normal that this is still on my mind. It’s fresh. And she’s right. But the real question is: what do I want to do with this information?
Part of me wants to scream it to the world. To expose the lies. To tell everyone—especially his family—who he really is. Not because of the mistress. That happens. But because of how immature, dishonest, and cowardly he was in ending our relationship. The lies are what hurt the most. What I discovered is that he’s a compulsive liar.
What shocks me is how effortlessly he lies—straight to your face—while insisting he isn’t lying. It’s like he truly doesn’t see it. I saw this clearly when he called me to tell me about his mistress. He said he wanted to tell me first, before the kids, because that’s what we had agreed on—then casually mentioned he had already told our oldest son. When I pointed it out, he doubled down. That’s when it hit me: he lies so much he doesn’t even realize it anymore.
Everyone tells me—and I do feel—that I’ve taken a huge weight off my shoulders. But he’s still the father of my children, which means he’ll always be part of my life in some way. A problem, yes—but a temporary one. I know that once the kids are older, I won’t need to coordinate much with him anymore.
I think I just needed to revisit this because it’s still living in my head. Do I do the “bad thing” and talk to his family? Would it help me in any way? Honestly, I know it wouldn’t. Maybe it would bring a small sense of personal revenge—but I also know that wouldn’t last.
For now, I find peace in knowing I was honest with my oldest son. What his dad did was wrong. Not because he left for another woman—but because he chose to lie, manipulate, and avoid facing his real issues, hiding behind meaningless, hurtful words.
This entire process has been a deep life lesson for me—about love, about respect, about not hurting others unnecessarily, and about protecting family. In a strange way, I feel I’m still doing that by choosing not to speak to his family.
This journey has been about reopening my heart, humanizing my emotions, and, ultimately, humanizing myself.