Cheating Wife Begs Took Her Back At My Wedding Ceremony. Sad Audio Story

[Music] Life doesn't always turn out the way we plan. When I was younger, I dreamed of a future filled with stability, love, and personal success. My parents had raised me to value hard work and honesty, so I pursued my education and career with those principles in mind. I wasn't extraordinary, but I was determined to make a life that mattered. Meeting Jennifer was like discovering a missing piece of my puzzle. She wasn't the loudest or most glamorous person in the room, but she had a quiet strength that drew me in. Over time, our connection deepened,

and I thought I'd found my partner for life. Together, we imagined a future built on shared dreams, unshakable trust, and mutual respect. For years, we worked side by side to create that future. From the early days of struggling to make ends meet to the gradual improvements in our careers and finances, we faced everything together—or so I thought. By the time I realized that cracks were forming in the foundation of our marriage, it was almost too late to fix them. I was deeply engrossed in reviewing files on my laptop when she entered the room. Her late

nights at work had become routine, but there was something unusual about this evening. The kids had finished their meals and homework long ago, and they'd already been asleep for nearly an hour. Without mentioning their mom, this pattern—once easy to overlook—now gnawed at me in ways I couldn't ignore. I had spent the past hour going through our finances. Over the past two years, things had worsened. Our income had dropped significantly, but my wife hadn't seemed to notice. She continued spending as if nothing had changed. I just paid the bills, but I knew we wouldn't last much

longer. Doubts about my choices started creeping in. Had I made a huge mistake? For two years, I had been waiting for the inevitable collapse. It felt like a ticking time bomb, but now I wasn't so sure. I had noticed her standing there, watching me. When I finally saw her, she crossed her arms and said, "Michael, I want a divorce." I didn't know how to respond. My mind was a mess—uncertain, self-loathing, and oddly numb. It wasn't funny, but I almost laughed. Seventeen years together, and now she was telling me it was over. Everything we built was

ending. Somehow, that realization felt oddly relieving. I stared at her, trying to relive the good times, but the weight of the moment hit me. I wasn't a great manager, though I was an excellent programmer. The promotion to senior product development manager had felt like a victory, but it was just a fancy title that trapped me in meetings. I missed hands-on programming, and watching younger developers excel only made me feel more disconnected. Being the boss wasn't as fulfilling as I'd imagined. In hindsight, getting fired from Chicago Technology Solutions wasn't surprising. I barely showed up to meetings,

missed deadlines, and didn't try to improve. I wasn't trying to get fired, but I wasn't trying to keep my job, either. I'd been depressed for a long time. It took almost three months to start making progress and another month to find a path that felt right. If not for the kids and their routine—school, homework, meals, bed—I might have lost my mind. That routine gave me purpose and slowly helped me get back on track. I threw myself into being a stay-at-home dad. The kids seemed to appreciate my presence, which made me feel valued, but if my

wife noticed the shift, she never said a word. I met Jennifer at a fraternity party. I almost didn't go, as I joined for the post-graduation connections, not the social life. I was just another average guy—average looks, average grades, average personality. My name, Michael, was one of the most common in the country—nothing remarkable about me. But then I met Jennifer. She wasn't strikingly different, yet I found her captivating—quiet and reserved; she intrigued me. We started talking, then studying together, and soon began dating seriously. Those fifteen years were the happiest of my life. We married, moved to

Chicago, and struggled financially, but we were rich in each other's company. We shared so much—family histories, hobbies, goals—and complemented each other perfectly. I handled the finances, and she managed our social life and the kids' schedules. We made a great team. Over time, we both advanced in our careers, bought a home, and traveled together. Everything felt perfect. When our son, Jacob, was born, followed by Emily, we settled into a suburban home with a dog, two cars, and what seemed like the ideal life. But then, I was promoted to manager, and everything changed. The new salary was

great, and we upgraded our lifestyle. I felt more confident, and Jennifer, always beautiful to me, seemed even more stunning. Our life, already good, seemed to improve even more. We traveled, spent quality time with the kids, and saved aggressively for retirement. When Emily started elementary school, Jennifer decided to return to work part-time. She found a job at a marketing startup with flexible hours that fit around the kids' schedules, which seemed like the perfect addition to our life. We didn't need the extra income, so we saved it. By the time the kids were nearing college, I felt

confident we'd retire comfortably. But just three months before our fifteenth anniversary, I discovered Jennifer had been having an affair. I found the evidence on my birthday; though I had suspected something for a few days, the truth didn't fully hit me until that moment. Processing it took weeks. I hadn't considered how Jennifer's longer work hours would affect our home life. I handled the kids and housework while she worked late. Initially, I didn't think much of it, but over time, I noticed her becoming distant. When I... "Asked," she said it was work stress, and I believed her.

I began taking on more tasks to ease her load. Eventually, we had a conversation. She said she didn't need fun the way she once did. Things seemed to improve briefly, but it didn't last. I kept my concerns to myself, not wanting to push her. Then, one day, while sorting laundry, I found a gift hidden behind some boxes: a pink box tied with a white ribbon and a postcard that read, "Beloved." I hesitated before deciding to wait until my birthday to open it. Two days before my birthday, I went all out, treating Jennifer with flowers, a

foot rub, and her favorite dinner, but her response felt distant. She seemed to just go through the motions. On my birthday, I made sure the kids finished their homework early, hoping everything would go smoothly, but when Jennifer came home late, I was thrown off. I suggested we go out for pizza, and the kids agreed. At the restaurant, our son Micha even chatted with the waitress. When we left, the staff wished me a happy birthday. Jennifer seemed surprised but quickly hid it. "I'll give you your present later, Michael," she said with a forced smile. The drive

home was tense, and I nearly got into a car accident. The evening felt off, but when the kids finally went to bed, I thought things might settle. However, Jennifer came back late from a quick trip to buy milk. When I walked into the bedroom, Jennifer wasn't there. She appeared a few minutes later, wearing a nightgown and looking casual. I was getting impatient. Where was my present? She handed me a small box wrapped in the same paper we used for Michael's birthday. "Happy birthday, darling," she said before turning over and falling asleep. I was too stunned

to open the gift. The next day, I felt a wave of sadness, replaying the night and wondering what went wrong. For the next two weeks, I sank into a deep depression, feeling the gift was a cruel reminder of my failure. I had heard the clichés: the husband's always the last to know, but I never believed them. The idea of Jennifer cheating never crossed my mind, but when she called 13 days later to say she'd be late for Alan's 30th birthday office celebration, I felt something shift. Walking toward the closet, I glanced at the empty space

where my gift had been. The realization hit me like a punch to the chest. I staggered toward the bathroom, convinced I might be having a heart attack. For a brief moment, I almost wished I was; the thought of facing the truth seemed unbearable. Alan Henderson, Jennifer's boss, was younger than us, slick and charming in a way I didn't trust. I'd met him once and immediately disliked him. There was something fake about him, like his speech was rehearsed. But it wasn't until my daughter Emily snapped me out of my haze that I realized I was spiraling.

"Are you okay, Daddy?" she asked, her voice full of concern. It took me a moment to snap back to reality, and when I looked at her, I saw her eyes starting to tear up. "I'm fine, sweetie," I said, forcing a smile. "Just ate something bad. I'll be okay. Go on, I'll be out in a minute." Somehow, I pulled myself together, though I don't remember much after that. The next morning, a pounding headache told me I'd drunk way too much. Jennifer was home by then, going through the motions as if nothing had changed. But when she

sat down to eat, I saw it—the faintest flicker of discomfort on her face. It was barely noticeable, but it felt like a slap. That moment shattered whatever was left of my feelings for her. I wish I could say I confronted her, but I didn't. I was crushed, numb like a zombie. For weeks, I watched her go on as if everything was fine while I sank deeper into misery. It wasn't until our 15th anniversary that I snapped out of it—or at least tried to. Jennifer told me she'd be at a work conference that day, completely ignoring

the significance of the date. That hurt more than anything. After getting blackout drunk that night, I woke up furious. I called a lawyer, ready to move on, but when I walked into the office, I quickly realized how unprepared I was. I had no hard evidence of her affair, and even if I did, she'd still get half of everything. I had no case, and with no proof of her being a bad mother, joint custody was my best bet. I would likely be paying alimony, and Jennifer would probably keep the house and the kids. I felt like

a fool; my world was falling apart, and I had no idea how it happened. Jennifer didn't make it easier. Weeks later, she asked if something was wrong. "You don't look so good, Michael," she said. "Is everything okay?" "No, honey," I replied, too numb to tell her the truth. "I'm just going through the motions." Then I lost my job—something that turned out to be a blessing in disguise. One night, while watching the news, a story about a major company collapsing caught my attention. The employees were scrambling for their paychecks, but the financial expert said, "The money's

gone." That gave me an idea: if we had nothing, Jennifer couldn't take anything. I decided to drain our savings and not look for another job. It was reckless; I knew that. But it was something I could control. Two years of living like this felt like an eternity. I realized I was alone. Jennifer had been the heart of our social life. I had no real friendships to fall back on; I was an only child and both of my parents were gone. For those two years, my kids were the only bright spot in my life. I had

never spent much money on anything extra; I still kept receipts for everything, but I quickly realized we weren't burning through cash fast enough to make it worthwhile. Apparently, I was much better at saving than spending, so I kicked it up a notch. I enrolled in an expensive local Executive MBA program—nearly $120,000. I bought a new luxury SUV, dropping $60,000. I put $260,000 into the kids' education accounts. I spent thousands on a new closet and withdrew more cash than ever. Twice a week, I'd drop the kids off at school, hit the bank, and head to the

lakeshore to kill time. I wasn't gambling away everything, but I'd take small amounts here and there to enjoy a little fun, even if it meant just going to the casino to eat and hang around. The majority of the money was stashed away in a wall safe in the garage—my personal war chest in case the divorce went south. One of my larger expenditures was surveillance on Jennifer and her lover. I requested everything: photos, videos, and a daily log of their activities. I won't say how much it cost, but I can tell you it was more than

I'm comfortable admitting. You might wonder if Jennifer noticed any of this spending; I'd say yes, except for the gambling. I had to tell her about the money I'd transferred to the kids' accounts because I needed her signature on them. She saw the new car but never commented; she probably thought I was still working and that everything was fine. She spent money too, but I didn't say a word. I've often wondered if her lingerie purchases were for me or someone else. We didn't talk about it, though. We were cordial and communicated when necessary, but that was

it. It felt like we were just roommates who tolerated each other. Our bed life had long gone stale, and I'd rather not think about it. What brought me joy was spending time with my kids. We did everything together: homework, games, parks, biking, movies. Since I had taken over cooking, they seemed excited to help. I found simple recipes and let them join in. Jennifer would show up every so often, but I didn't force her into family activities; if she was around and wanted to join, she just did. There were no words between us about it. Meanwhile,

I got weekly reports on her activities. At first, I thought she was just having fun with her boss, but soon it was clear she was seeing several guys from her office. Eventually, the company's clients started showing up on her schedule too. Was I hurt? Not really. By then, I already saw her as someone who was unfaithful; now I just had the proof to back it up. The reports weren't all that shocking, I suppose—I was relieved in a way, though it didn't change much. Alen Henderson, her boss, wasn't much of a lover, but he managed to

spread his attention around to a few women. That was a bit surprising, though I had assumed he and Jennifer had something more serious; it seemed they were just two people enjoying each other's company. The other men were much the same, but one client stood out: a geeky guy with glasses and a pocket protector. I couldn't tell from the photos and videos if Jennifer enjoyed it, but it sure looked painful. Between classes, time with the kids, and occasional trips to the casino, I had a lot of free time on my hands, so I decided to focus

on my post-marriage life, even though it felt like it was still a long way off. I started working out—nothing extreme, but I made good progress with strength training and running. I'd always thought that muscles and looks were mostly genetic, and I wasn't blessed in either area. Still, I felt great about the changes in my body. I started paying attention to the latest news in my old industry, knowing that sooner or later, I'd need to find a job again. A year of being away from everything had left me behind, and I could sense it every day.

I spent hours catching up on new technologies and software developments. My old company, CTS, seemed stagnant; they weren't losing ground, but they weren't growing either. In the tech world, standing still is just as bad as falling behind. Alongside this, I dedicated a good chunk of my time to studying divorce. I knew I'd need to understand it better, but not just from a legal standpoint. I wanted to learn how divorce affects children because that would be the hardest part for me. I'd already dealt with most of the pain, but I wanted to make sure I was

prepared for what would come next. Some of the advice I came across seemed useless, but I kept digging. Eight months into this phase, panic started to creep in. Jennifer was coming home at regular times again, making small talk, asking how my day had been. I gave short, dismissive answers, but she didn't seem to mind. She started dressing more provocatively at night, as if trying to reignite the closeness we once had. A few weeks later, things escalated. After a year and a half of being distant, she began complaining about our lack of communication and talking about

trying to fix our marriage. That's when I went completely silent. Her attempts to reconnect didn't stop. For her birthday, I left her gift on the dining room table. The wrapping paper was the same I'd used for the last gift she'd given me. The contents weren't a surprise either; six months had passed since she gave me my birthday gift—a cheap digital watch I had found in the impulse-buy section of a convenience store. $9.95, and I was furious. But when I saw a matching women's version, I calmed down and bought both watches, waiting 18 months to give

her the one I had. I'll never know her reaction to it because I wasn't there when she opened it; the kids and I had an impromptu movie night and came home late. By the time we woke up the next morning, Jennifer was gone, and just like that, things went back to their usual rhythm. She began spending more time at the office, and when she was home, we barely exchanged words. A few days later, she told me she wanted a divorce. I was hoping she'd make it quick, but it took nearly a week for me to

get the papers. When I finally saw them, I couldn't help but laugh. She wanted spousal and child support, an uneven property split in her favor, and emotional misuse listed as grounds. I waited until the following Monday to take the kids camping; I didn't want them anywhere near when I decided to take action. When we returned six days later, Jennifer was waiting for us. She was sitting in the living room, looking unwell and not in a good way. I had already filed for divorce, citing infidelity, and asked for full custody of the kids and the house.

I was unemployed, but I was also the primary caregiver for two years. I filed lawsuits for parental alienation against her seven lovers, though I knew they'd likely go nowhere. But Illinois law allowed me to file them, so I did. I also filed civil suits against her employer and the companies of the three clients who had been involved with her. Again, I didn't expect to win, but the publicity might work in my favor. As a final touch, I sent a DVD of her exploits to her parents and best friend, so they'd know I wasn't hiding anything.

I wanted Jennifer to understand that I wasn't afraid to use everything I had against her. All of it was in my countersuit, but I wasn't about to take any chances. The kids grabbed a snack and went upstairs to get ready for bed; they didn't acknowledge their mother. She didn't make any move to talk to them. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat down across from her. She didn't look at me right away. I took my time with the beer, letting the silence hang between us. She looked like she was on the verge of

tears. Finally, she whispered, her voice barely audible, "You're going to ruin me." I paused, letting the words sink in. When she finally looked up, I met her gaze without hesitation. "God, I hope so." I had expected this moment to be more intense, but when a single tear rolled down her cheek, I felt nothing. "Do you hate me that much?" she asked, her voice trembling. "No, Jennifer," I replied, my tone flat and detached. "I don't hate you. Hating takes effort, and I haven't put any effort into you. All my energy goes into taking care of myself

and my kids." "But I'm your wife," she said, her voice almost pleading. "Stop," I interrupted coldly. "I'm not going to let you tarnish the memory of my real wife, the woman who was loving, caring, and the mother of my children. She's gone; you're just the one who's taken over her body. Don't talk like you're anything to me." She didn't say anything for a while, and I could tell she was trying to process it all. Eventually, she asked, "What am I supposed to do now?" "Is that a rhetorical question, or do you want my advice?" I

didn't let her answer. "Well, here's what I think: you could run away, start over somewhere new. That's what I'd do. I'll never let you be a real part of my kids' lives, so that shouldn't affect your decision. Or you could stick around here, keep your head down, but who knows who'll find out about your little escapades or who'll want to hire someone like you? Maybe you'll find some loser who doesn't care that you're a hoe, but what kind of loser would that be? Or you could just end it all." I paused, letting my words settle.

"I really hope you don't pick that option. I'd hate to miss watching you suffer like the witch you are. But then again, I'm not sure my opinion matters to you. It didn't when you decided to play around with your boss." I had been planning this moment for months, rehearsing my words, imagining how satisfying it would feel to watch her crumble. But when the time came, instead of satisfaction, I felt an overwhelming emptiness. The aftermath of the divorce was murky, to say the least. Things went better than I expected with the lawsuits. I ended up securing

over a million dollars from three companies whose employees had been involved with my wife. I'd been warned by my lawyer not to get my hopes up, but after working through discovery motions, depositions, and media leaks, we exposed enough to do serious damage. I also took matters into my own hands, discreetly contacting their clients and warning them about the scandal. It took time, but eventually, their business dried up, and they were forced to file for bankruptcy. Alan Henderson, my ex-wife's boss, lost his position and fled the city in disgrace. The money I received wasn't the most

rewarding, but watching their downfall felt like a victory. In the process, I was affected too. I occasionally ran into people who knew about my situation, and the taunts and mockery took a toll for a while, but I didn't care anymore. I had already accepted my own failure, and their words didn't sting. The kids were affected for a bit but recovered quickly. The real victory came when I... Returned to CTS as VP of Design and Development, programming became my escape. Over the next two years, I developed a software add-on that allowed CTS to integrate with two

major competitors. Soon after, I sold the company and my software for $1 million, along with an attractive compensation package from CTS. Retirement was on my mind, but with no social life to speak of, I feared I'd become a recluse if I didn't keep myself busy. The new wealth allowed me to hire a housekeeper and babysitter, Mrs. Marleene Jensen, an older woman who moved into an apartment above the garage. After a year, she became a grandmother figure to my children, kind yet firm, and her wisdom helped me navigate decisions. Though I did my best to be

a loving father, I couldn't escape my bitterness. Mrs. Jensen became my anchor. As the years passed, the kids grew up, and the distance between us grew too. I never resented them; I just didn't want my bitterness to affect their lives. Mrs. Jensen stayed with us until they went off to college, then retired, but I offered her room and board for her years of service. She tried to get me to open up to the idea of moving on, but I never did. When she passed, I was left with nothing but a deep sense of loneliness. I

never sought help; I just let the years pass. My life remained empty and distant. Money allowed me to keep a revolving door of call girls. I paid them well, but there was only one I really connected with, Candy, though I later learned her real name was Mary Beth. We shared something more than just a business arrangement, but when I sensed her becoming too attached, I ended it. I couldn't risk letting anyone close. As for Jennifer, her life was far from easy. She tried to contact me for almost a year after the divorce, but I didn't

entertain it. I couldn't fathom why she bothered; maybe she hoped for reconciliation or perhaps wanted to reconnect with the kids. I followed her for a while, making sure her new employers and boyfriends knew everything about her past. I didn't care if they still chose to be with her; I just didn't want her rewriting the story. Her relentless attempts to reach me were met with silence. I didn't block her emails or change my number; I wanted her to suffer, at least for a while. I could have done something to end the misery earlier, but I didn't.

The situation became uncontrollable. At one point, I sent her a gift with a note. I bought lingerie from her favorite store and wrapped it with a white ribbon. The note inside was simple but sharp, which I hoped she understood one day. A man who was apparent one of Jennifer's new suitors showed up at my door. He was drunk, and when I answered, he shoved me back and knocked me down. It was his mistake. I wasn't a fighter, but my anger got the better of me, and while I defended myself, the situation escalated into a physical

altercation that left us both injured. He was charged with misdemeanor assault, but I think the physical toll of his surgeries stuck with him longer than the legal consequences. Jennifer eventually gave up trying to contact me. I stopped following her after she took a job cleaning rooms at a hotel in Virginia. The next time I saw her was 16 years later at my daughter's wedding. My children had reconnected with her years after college, but I hadn't tried to stop them. By then, she had aged terribly; her face was worn, and the years had clearly not been

kind. Yet there was still a glimpse of the woman I had once loved. I felt nothing for her, but I noticed her sitting alone at the wedding. She exchanged a few words with my daughter but didn't approach me. We kept our distance the entire evening. When I saw her outside waiting for a cab, I saw a small gold ring on her finger. I smiled; maybe she had found someone, and maybe he treated her better than I ever did. I walked over, looked at her ring for a moment, then met her eyes. The sadness in her

gaze was unmistakable. "By the way, you ruined my life," I said. I glanced at her hand, then back to her eyes. "I'm glad you found someone. I hope he makes you happy." Without waiting for a response, I walked away. My driver was waiting, and we left the scene. As I climbed into the car, the driver greeted me. "Good evening, Mr. Smith. Did the evening go well?" I settled into the seat and replied, "It went as well as I could have hoped." "Jonathan Letun, go home," he nodded. "As you wish, sir." I avoided looking back as

we drove away, but I caught a glimpse of her one last time. Years have passed since that night at the wedding. The memory of seeing Jennifer again still lingered, not with anger or regret, but with a strange sense of closure. Life hasn't been perfect, but it's been mine, shaped by my choices, my failures, and my victories. The kids are thriving now, building their own lives. I see them often, though I give them space to live without the shadow of my past hovering over them. I've stepped back from work and spend most of my time quietly,

a mix of hobbies, volunteering, and traveling to places I once thought I'd visit with someone by my side. Loss still visits me, but it's an old companion now, less cruel than it once was. I think back on everything: the mistakes, the betrayals, the bitter victories, and I wonder if I could have done things differently. Maybe, but dwelling on the past doesn't change it. Nights, I dream of Jennifer as she was in our early years: vibrant, hopeful, full of love. I wake up knowing she's a memory now, and I let the dream fade. The life I've

built isn't what I imagined, but it's real; and in its imperfection, it's enough. I grew up in a quaint suburban neighborhood, surrounded by the constant buzz of well-meaning neighbors and friends. From an early age, my life felt like it was on a conveyor belt, moving steadily toward a future mapped out by tradition and expectations. My parents, loving and supportive, wanted the best for me, though their vision for my life often felt suffocating. Every decision, from what I wore to whom I befriended, was carefully scrutinized. Yet, I never rebelled; I simply blended into the role of

the obedient daughter. When I entered college, I thought I was stepping into a new chapter where I could redefine myself. Instead, I fell into the same patterns. Joining a sorority seemed like the perfect way to escape my mundane past, but it only emphasized how out of place I felt. My sisters, glamorous and confident, embodied the collegiate dream I was trying to emulate but couldn't quite grasp. I told myself I didn't care, yet the loneliness gnawed at me. Nights were filled with loud laughter and clinking glasses, but I often felt like a shadow on the periphery.

The night I met Michael Smith was a low point for me. It was a Friday, and the campus was alive with energy. I had attended a fraternity party with my sorority sisters, only to find myself abandoned amid a crowd of strangers. The room felt stifling, the air thick with booze and desperation. For hours, I dodged leering stares and drunken attempts at conversation. When I finally made my way outside for some air, I leaned against a lamp post, silently wishing the night would end. And then there he was. Michael wasn't striking or particularly memorable at first

glance, but he had an aura of quiet confidence. He approached me with a kind smile, introducing himself with an ease that immediately put me at ease. We exchanged pleasantries, and for the first time that night, I felt seen. Little did I know that unassuming meeting would alter the trajectory of my life. Michael Smith didn't stand out immediately; his appearance was plain, almost forgettable. Yet there was something warm and genuine about him that drew people in. Over time, his charisma wasn't loud or showy; it was subtle, built on intelligence, sincerity, and approachability. His true uniqueness revealed

itself gradually, like peeling back layers to discover a gem hidden beneath. Our first meeting was during what was probably the worst night of my college life. My sorority sisters had promised to stick together at a fraternity party, but they ditched me for the popular crowd. I spent two hours alone, fending off drunken advances, until Michael approached me. He introduced himself politely, started a casual conversation, and after a while smiled and said, "It was nice talking to you, Jennifer. I'd love to grab coffee sometime. Here's my number if you're interested." That brief encounter stuck with me.

I almost didn't call him, but after a week of hesitation, I did. When we met for coffee, I realized what made him stand out. He wasn't flashy, but incredibly intelligent. He could talk about anything with ease, and his interest in me was clear. We talked about my struggles with ancient philosophy, and he offered to study together. Three days later, we met again. It wasn't so much studying as it was a master class in philosophy. He patiently explained the concepts I struggled with, never making me feel inadequate. He didn't take credit when I passed my exam,

saying that spending time with me was the best part for him. What truly set Michael apart was how different he was from the typical college guy: no parties, no distractions—just focused on his studies. At first, it frustrated me, but I grew to admire his discipline. We didn't go on traditional dates, but he'd call me every day, check in, and leave little notes. Our time together was mostly coffee or library study sessions. He was always open and honest with me. One day, I asked him what he was afraid of, expecting some macho response. Instead, he paused,

then quietly said, "I'm afraid I won't be a good father. I never had a good role model, and I'm scared I'll mess it up when I start my own family." I could see the vulnerability in his eyes, and it made me admire him even more. "Not too much," I reassured him, "just enough." About a month into our relationship, Michael asked if I was free on Saturday. He wouldn't tell me what he had planned, but my sorority sisters acted oddly, whispering and smiling at me. When he showed up dressed in maroon and sky blue with his

friends in matching clothes and carrying a cooler of food, I was puzzled. He took me on a tour of the sorority house, and when we rounded the corner, I was stunned. The entire room was decorated in West Ham colors, and his friends started chanting. Michael had organized a surprise for me. He knew I'd missed a trip to England to see my cousin play for West Ham. He had recorded the game, learned the chants, and even cooked fish and chips to make it feel authentic. When my cousin scored his first Premier League goal, Michael asked everyone

to quiet down. It was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for me. For the next few weeks, our routine continued: phone calls, notes, and coffee. Then one day, as we sat sipping lattes, Michael seemed uneasy. "Is something wrong?" I asked. He stammered, "I was wondering if you're free this Friday night. Would you want to have dinner with me?" "A date, of course," I said, smiling. His face lit up with relief, and he grinned all the way through finishing his coffee. Even as he walked to class, he was still smiling. After that moment, everything

seemed to fall into place. My life became a whirlwind of love, joy, and new friendships. I thrived in school, enjoyed life more than I ever thought possible, and grew more confident. People treated me differently, and I wasn't just that girl anymore; I was the girl—the one Michael adored. It was clear others noticed, and I stood a little taller. Being with Michael boosted my self-esteem; he openly praised me, and I could tell he wasn't just being polite. Michael was attractive, fit, and had a charm that made him easy to like. Though he was reserved around strangers,

he was brilliant—probably the smartest person in the room—but never flaunted it. He preferred to stay out of the spotlight, focusing on us. He always claimed he was just an average guy who got lucky meeting me, but I knew better; he was extraordinary. Before meeting him, I saw myself as pretty, though my friends and family called me cute. I felt insecure next to the stunning women around me, but with Michael, I began to feel valued and even beautiful. The longer we were together, the more I felt worthy of love and attention. When prom came around, I

finally participated in a sorority tradition—the potential husband game—where each sister shared stories about her boyfriend. Michael received glowing praise from every sister, a first in the event's 29-year history. I couldn't tell him directly, but it was a proud moment. Three days later, I found a way to show my appreciation. After graduation, Michael drove me back to Chicago. We spent the day talking, holding hands, and kissing. When we arrived at my childhood home, he charmed my parents. I was stunned when he asked my dad for a beer, but my dad was thrilled. They left together, and

I was left with my mom, who smiled with tears in her eyes. "Oh, Jennifer," she said softly, "this one's a keeper." "I know, Mom," I replied, my heart full. Two hours later, Michael returned, casually mentioning that he'd asked my dad for permission to marry me. The moment felt surreal, and I'll treasure it forever. Later that night, after a romantic dinner, he proposed at Willis Tower under the starry sky, the city lights reflecting the joy in my heart. That night was everything I had dreamed of. As a college student, I had always felt out of place

as one of the few maids in my sorority, but with Michael, that night wasn't just physical; it was a precious gift we shared. He was tender and patient, making it perfect. Later, I jokingly asked him how he had become such a great lover. Modest as always, he whispered with a grin, "I read a lot." Our life together felt like a fairy tale. Michael landed a great job right after graduation and quickly rose through the ranks. We were on cloud nine, and I couldn't have been happier. Our first decade was filled with love and joy; starting

a family only deepened that happiness. Though I don't talk much about those years, the details are irrelevant to how things eventually unraveled. I know exactly where I went wrong. I made mistakes, and I know why things fell apart. It comes down to one thing: I didn't trust Michael enough. What made him so remarkable was his openness; he shared his vulnerabilities, fears, and doubts with me. Our relationship was built on mutual respect, with him always seeking my input and approval. It made me feel special, but over time, it also made me feel inadequate, like I wasn't

doing enough. I kept that feeling to myself. If I had been honest with him, I never would have lost everything. He would have helped me; I know he would have. But that small insecurity grew, and as the years passed—especially once the kids were in school—I started to feel lost. I convinced myself I needed something more, something outside the life we had built. I wasn't looking for another man, but something about the routine started to feel flat. It wasn't his fault; it was mine. I felt restless and disconnected, and I couldn't shake the feeling that something

was missing. I knew my husband was interested in trying new things, but I didn't think it was necessary. I liked our life as it was—why complicate it? No, what I really wanted was to feel like an equal, not just be treated as one. So, I made a decision. I found a job and told Michael that I had accepted the offer. I was ready to defend my choice, prepared to explain why it was important for me. The argument lasted all of four seconds. "That sounds great, Jennifer. Whatever makes you happy," Michael said. It worked. I had

solved my problem on my own, without needing anyone's help. Looking back, I cringe at how self-righteous I felt in those early months, but at the time, it was thrilling. I felt like I was stepping into the world as an independent, confident woman. The atmosphere at work could be described as flirtatious at best or a den of mischief at worst. My coworkers were young, bold, and full of energy. There were a few casual office flings, but no one seemed to take it seriously. My boss, Alan Henderson, was the worst offender. Alan wasn't my type—handsome, yes, but

not the kind of guy I'd usually be interested in. He was notorious for his failed relationships, with everyone teasing him about his endless string of short-lived affairs. I wasn't the type to jump into bed with the first guy who paid attention to me, and I dismissed him pretty firmly. At first, but as time went on, I began to wonder if there was something my life with Michael was lacking. Our group of friends was conservative compared to the easy, casual relationships I saw at work. The office had a different energy, a constant buzz of flirtation and

attraction, especially after our company Christmas party. The real shift came when I introduced Allan to Michael. I could tell they didn't like each other, even though they pretended to be cordial. After that night, I stopped sharing anything about my job with Michael, and I didn't mention Allan at all. It was clear my work was starting to bother him, and I didn't want to make things worse. At the office, Allan began paying more attention to me. He'd publicly praise my work, ask how I was doing, and suggest we have lunch together. We'd often discuss our projects

in depth, and before long, our conversations started drifting into more personal territory. He complimented me on my looks, and while I tried to brush it off, part of me was flattered. Looking back, I see that Allan was slowly working his way in, and I was too caught up in the excitement to notice. He was charming, smooth, and made me feel desirable in ways I hadn't felt in a long time. I can't pinpoint the exact moment it all changed, but I regret that it did. I allowed myself to get swept up in the thrill of attention,

feeling emotions that I thought I had lost. Allan knew exactly how to push my buttons, and before I knew it, I was tangled in an affair. Years later, I realized how deep the betrayal was. The truth was, I didn't feel desired by Michael because I wasn't giving him anything to desire. I had become complacent. I knew Michael would never do anything that made me uncomfortable; he saw me as his partner, his lover, not just someone to pass the time with. But he was also perceptive; he could tell when something was off, and I never gave

him the chance to ask. Looking back on my marriage, I see that Michael was trying, in his own way, to bring some excitement back into our lives, but I ignored him. I'm ashamed to admit how far I fell for Allan. I became nothing more than an object for his amusement. I gave him what he wanted for his birthday, and the contrast between him and Michael hit me hard. Allan didn't love me, and I realized I had made a terrible mistake. The next day, I tried to end things, but Allan didn't take it well. He laughed

it off and shoved me out of his office, only to leave a package on my desk when I returned from lunch. Inside was a set of photos that would bind me to him for the next year and a half—photos that became my chains. The reality of my situation hit me like a ton of bricks. For the next 18 months, I became nothing more than a pawn in Allan's twisted game. He was my pimp, and I hated him just as much as I hated myself for getting to that point. I tried to escape, but every attempt

failed. It wasn't until I reached a breaking point—when I was asked to entertain a man in a conference room full of people—that I finally found the courage to say no. I walked into Allan's office and told him I was done. I didn't care who he showed the pictures to anymore. He just laughed. That was the end of it. I felt like the biggest fool when I finally woke up from that nightmare. I was shocked by the state of our home. Michael and the kids were doing just fine without me. I had expected them to be

struggling, but instead, it was clear that Michael had everything under control. He had a new car, new clothes, and looked like a man who had moved on. I was horrified when I realized how long I had neglected them. That day, I decided I was going to rededicate myself to my family and try to make amends for my betrayal. But things had changed. Michael had distanced himself from me in a way I hadn't anticipated. He never yelled, never fought with me, but he treated me like an intruder in our home; it was as if I no

longer belonged. I tried to win him back. I made an effort to seduce him, to get things back to how they were, but nothing worked. Months passed, and I saw the state of our marriage for what it was: no closeness, no communication. I couldn't live like that. I suggested marriage counseling, but Michael stopped talking to me altogether. He didn't stop trusting me; he just stopped speaking. For weeks, he said nothing. I was on edge, waiting for something to change. Then my birthday came. I thought maybe—just maybe—he wouldn't ignore me on my special day. How wrong

I was! When I walked through the door after work, eager to see what surprises my family had in store for my birthday, the house was eerily quiet. There was no celebration, no laughter. The only thing waiting for me on the dining table was a small, neatly wrapped box. I knew immediately what it was, even before touching it. A few years earlier, I had made the mistake of forgetting Michael's birthday. In a panic, I grabbed a cheap watch from a local store. I promised myself I'd make up for it, but I never did. The watch I

gave him was an afterthought, but the gift I now had in my hands—that was intentional. By the time I went to bed that night, I was livid. Keeping the kids away from me on my birthday felt like a deliberate punishment, and the... gift itself; it made everything worse. I should have realized sooner that something was deeply wrong. The symbolism of it all was right in front of me, but I couldn't see it. Michael wasn't a bad person; he was, in fact, the kindest and most considerate person I'd ever met. But in that moment, clouded by

frustration over the gift, I lost sight of everything. If I had been clear-headed enough, I might have salvaged what was left of my marriage. Instead, I decided to divorce him. I didn't even try to work through the issues anymore; I was done. It didn't take long to find an attorney and start the process. I told her everything: how Michael had pulled away from me, how he'd stopped communicating, how he refused to go to counseling, and how he ignored me completely. My lawyer latched onto my words, assuring me I'd come out on top. We went over

the divorce settlement, and I felt like I was finally doing what was necessary to move on with my life. The hardest part, of course, was telling Michael. I stood in the doorway of the room we once shared, staring at the man who used to be my partner, the person I thought I would grow old with. He was still physically there, but somehow he felt like a stranger. I had reached my breaking point. “Michael, I want a divorce.” There was a long pause. He didn't react the way I had expected; there were no tears, no shouting,

no begging. He just stared at me in silence for a moment, then quietly said, “Okay.” And that was it. The following Friday, he was served with the divorce papers. That weekend, I noticed a shift in his mood, like he had decided to make an effort, but it was too little, too late. On Monday, as I left for work, he said goodbye to me at the door, almost like he was trying to make amends, but I wasn't in the mood for reconciliation. That morning at work, something felt off, though I couldn't quite put my finger on

it. My boss, the president, and the company's lawyer were in the conference room arguing in a way that felt almost theatrical. Papers were flying everywhere, and the tension was palpable. Distracted by the chaos, I didn't notice the man standing by my desk until he spoke. “Jennifer Smith?” I turned toward him, confused. “Yes?” “You've been served.” He handed me a thick envelope, snapped a photo, and then walked away. Before I could even sit down, the HR manager and a security guard appeared in front of me. “Mrs. Smith,” the HR manager said, his tone flat, “you are

being suspended pending an investigation into inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Please collect your things and leave the building immediately.” I felt my heart sink. It was beyond humiliating to pack my things while my co-workers stared at me; being escorted out of the building only made it worse. I had no clue what was going on. I barely made it out of the parking lot when my phone rang. It was my lawyer. Before I could even greet her, she tore into me for not keeping her informed. It was a blur of insults; I didn't even register much

of what she said. I drove home numb. When I got there, the house was empty again. It wasn't until I sat down that I remembered the envelope. Michael's counter petition was devastating. Almost every affair I had was documented. The worst part? There was no money left; Michael had drained all of our savings. And the word that hit me hardest—infidelity. I couldn't believe what I was reading. I tried calling my parents, hoping for some support, but my father called me a “hoe” and hung up. No explanation was needed; I already knew what I had done. The

next week felt like a complete descent into isolation, but looking back, I would later think of those days as the quiet before the storm. Michael had left a note saying he was taking the kids camping for the weekend and would be back Sunday. That first night, my friend Rebeca called. She told me Michael had sent her a DVD warning me that I didn't want to know what was on it. As the days dragged on, my lawyer made it clear that my situation was hopeless. I was about to be fired for misconduct, and my company, along

with several clients and partners, was preparing to sue me. I was going to lose my job, my reputation, and possibly custody of my children. Everything was falling apart. In my desperation, I was willing to do anything to stop Michael's legal onslaught, but nothing worked. When he came back from camping, I was a wreck. I tried to hold myself together, but when I saw him walk in, beer in hand, barely acknowledging me, I couldn't keep it together. “You're going to ruin me,” I managed to say through tears. His response was cold, almost venomous. “God, I hope

so,” he said. And just like that, I realized how far things had gone. The man I once knew was now a stranger, and I was responsible for it all. When I attempted to address the wreckage of our marriage, Michael didn't let me finish. I wasn't even talking to him directly; I was just speaking my thoughts aloud, but he didn't care. Instead, he erupted in a torrent of insults. Each word hit me like a physical blow; it stunned me. I didn't even know how to respond. Somehow, I forced myself to keep it together for a moment,

but the emotional weight was overwhelming. Then he just got up and walked out of the room, leaving me in stunned silence. I want to say I gave up on trying, but that wouldn't be true. I kept making attempts to... Fix things with Michael, but he refused to engage with me. It was as if I had become invisible to him. I couldn't stop worrying about how he and the kids were coping without any financial support, but somehow they seemed fine. Sometimes I'd watch from a distance as he dropped them off or picked them up from school.

I couldn't get a job and was surviving on unemployment benefits. My family had completely cut me off. I had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, so I ended up couch surfing with friends, mostly divorced men. It never lasted long; I'd move in, and then almost overnight they'd want me out. On the advice of my lawyer, I started seeing a therapist. She believed that knowing I was trying to fix myself might look good in court, but I had little hope. I reluctantly worked through some issues, some of which I've shared with you, but

what stuck with me most was her final piece of advice: run as far as you can. I can't pinpoint what exactly made Michael decide to reach out. Maybe it was a phone call, an email, or one of the letters I sent him. Whatever it was, I came home one day to find a package waiting for me. It was a standard gift box from a store I recognized, and the card had a tone that left no doubt about his feelings. He knew everything. The weight of that realization was crushing. I was staying at a friend's place,

Robert, a decent guy, though I could tell he was hoping for something more than just a roommate situation. When he saw the package, he exploded. He ran out of the apartment before I could stop him. A few hours later, Robert still hadn't returned. I was getting worried when I finally heard from him—at the hospital. The nurses weren't forthcoming, but it didn't take much to piece it together. Robert had gone to confront Michael, and Michael nearly knocked him out. His face was unrecognizable; he had a concussion, several internal injuries, and his hip was shattered. I was

terrified my actions were now causing damage to the people around me. At my next therapy session, I told the story. My therapist asked a lot of questions about Michael. I told her everything I knew: he was an only child, orphaned as a teenager, and had always been kind and devoted to me and the kids. I told her about the years of loyalty he'd shown despite my infidelity. When I finished, her face paled, and she looked horrified. "You need to leave," she said, her voice shaking. "Leave him. Leave everything. Do not contact him. Do not call,

write, or let him know where you are. There is no chance for reconciliation; do you understand? If you push him, he will liquidate you. You've broken a man who was already fragile. He's suffered disappointments his whole life. He will never forgive you. He will never forget. Just leave. Run." So I ran. I left everything behind: my life, my family, the dream I'd built, and moved to a small town in Virginia, far from everything familiar. I found a terrible job that barely paid the bills. A few years later, I met a man who tolerated my presence.

We didn't love each other; there was no passion, no deep connection. We simply coexisted, but that, in a strange way, felt like punishment enough for me. When my children were older, they reached out. They didn't ask to see me; they just checked in to make sure I was alive. Michael, it seemed, was thriving without me. I followed his success quietly; he became a big name in the tech world with millions to show for it, his personal life a mystery. The last time I saw Michael was at my daughter's wedding. To my surprise, I was invited.

He looked incredible, like the man I had fallen in love with, the man I had destroyed. He was everything I had ever wanted, and it hit me like a wave of guilt. He came up to me afterward, and I knew this would be the moment he'd deliver his final judgment. "For the record," he said, his voice cold, "you ruined my life." He glanced at my wedding ring, which I hadn't bothered to wear much. I could see the contempt in his eyes, but also something else—a sort of finality. "I'm glad you found someone. I hope he

makes you happy." And with that, he walked away, leaving me standing there, knowing I had lost everything that had once mattered. Life in my small Virginia town isn't what I envisioned for myself, but I've learned to live with the choices that brought me here. Each day feels like penance, a quiet atonement for the love I squandered and the trust I shattered. My husband, if I can even call him that, has been kind enough to share this lifeless partnership, though I know he sees it as a convenience more than a connection. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of

Michael's life through our children. They've built their own worlds, beautiful and vibrant, a testament to the father who raised them. I take pride in their accomplishments, even if my role in their success feels like a distant memory. But the weight of my mistakes is always there. It lives in the silence of my home, the absent touch of real love, and the memories of a man who once looked at me as if I were his entire universe. I sometimes wonder if forgiveness will ever come—not from Michael, but from myself. As I watch the sun dip below

the horizon, painting the sky with hues of amber and gold, I like to imagine a version of my life where I made better choices—a life where Michael and I grew old together, holding... Hands through every storm, unshaken by the temptations of the world. But fantasies are all I have now. In the end, I can only walk forward, step by step, carrying the lessons of my past as both a burden and a guide. [Music] [Applause] [Music] [Applause] [Music]