But I didn’t confront him. Not yet. Something in me froze instead of exploded. The next morning, I quietly contacted a lawyer. I started planning an escape—changing passwords, checking finances, imagining a life without him. Meanwhile, I treated him coldly, barely speaking, barely looking at him. He seemed confused, but I didn’t care. I felt betrayed, humiliated.
Then, a few days later, he walked in after work with someone beside him.
“Babe,” he said cheerfully, “I brought a guest. This is Greg. You’re going to love him—he’s a great guy.”
I stood in the hallway, numb… until I met Greg’s eyes.
He looked nervous. Gentle. Kind of lost. And strangely familiar. My confusion must have shown, because my husband quickly explained.
Greg’s wife had passed away two years ago. He had finally built up the courage to try dating again, but he didn’t know how modern dating worked—apps, profiles, messages. So he had turned to the only person he trusted: my husband.
And the profile… wasn’t my husband’s at all.
It was Greg’s.
Every message. Every photo. Every heartbreaking line.
Even “My wife is dead.”
Continue Reading 
Next Page
