When Sam surprised me with a getaway for me and the kids, my gut said something was off. He wasn’t the thoughtful type — more likely to forget our anniversary than book a hotel.
“Take Alison and Phillip, have fun,” he said, avoiding eye contact. He claimed work deadlines, but his nervous energy screamed otherwise. I left, unsettled.
Days at the hotel were hectic. But late at night, the unease crept back. By day five, I imagined catching him with another woman. I arranged a sitter and drove home, bracing for betrayal.
But it wasn’t an affair. It was worse.
I walked in to find his mother, Helen, lounging on my couch, sipping from my favorite mug like she owned the place. Sam, pale and guilty, had clearly planned this — but hadn’t bothered to tell me.
That night, I overheard Helen berating me, calling the kids unruly and saying I wasn’t good enough. Sam’s response? “I know, Mom. You’re right.”
Something inside me quietly snapped.
The next morning, I smiled and said I’d extend the trip. Instead, I went to a lawyer. By the time they returned from shopping, the kids and I were gone. I left a note: “You’re free to live with your mother now. Don’t try to find us.”
Two weeks later, Sam called. “I kicked her out. Please come home.”
But a neighbor told me Helen was still moving in. I laughed until I cried.
Now, in our new apartment, my daughter asked, “When are we going home?”
“We are home,” I said.
Sometimes, the other woman isn’t a mistress. Sometimes, it’s the mother who never let go — and the man who never stood up. So I left them both behind.
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