Life Stories

My husband turned cold and furious after discovering both my affair and pregnancy.He confronted my affair partner, fought with my family, and abandoned me. Is there any way to win him back?

This is my attempt to make sense of the wreckage, a way to vent and perhaps find advice from others who have strayed. It’s been seven agonizing months since my husband discovered my affair. We are both 39. Before this, he was the sweetest man I knew. He wasn’t perfect, of course; he had his quirks. But I was his world, and our family was his universe. He worked grueling hours so I could stay home and raise our son and daughter, yet he always found the energy for small, sweet gestures just to brighten my day.

He wasn’t always this way. In high school, he was the charming, obnoxious rogue who got into fights and had a string of girlfriends. I was the nerdy girl, lost in video games, comic books, and cosplay. He had moved to our town in eighth grade, and his family was… different. Everyone was drawn to him. He invited me to my first party, taught me to dance salsa, and then vanished into the popular crowd. I thought that was it.

But the summer before senior year, he walked into the comic shop where I worked and just… stayed. He hung out all day, talking to me, and eventually, he started walking me home. One day turned into many, and by the end of the summer, we were dating. I had the greatest senior year of my life, swept into a world of parties and popularity, but my favorite moments were always when it was just the two of us. I never slacked on my studies; in fact, I made him study with me. We got into the same college and were married shortly after graduation. Our son arrived a year and a half later, our daughter 20 months after that.

Life was hard at first. He struggled to find work with no experience, taking on odd jobs—construction, grave digging, janitorial work—until he landed a chance as a computer tech. He put on a lot of weight during those years, but it never diminished his… appetite. I, on the other hand, maintained my figure. We became a cliché: the stout, muscular man and his slender wife. We even dressed as Barney and Betty Rubble one Halloween, leaning into the joke. He worked out, but the body fat was stubborn.

His physical appetite for me remained high, but mine was fading. It wasn’t that I didn’t want intimacy; I just was never in the mood. The kids drained me. Cooking and cleaning drained me. Yes, he helped—he handled laundry, and Sunday was “Daddy Cook Day”—but I was perpetually exhausted. The more I said no, the more his mood would sour. He’d snap and complain. And when we did connect, he would turn it into a marathon, leaving me sore for a week while he still wanted more. He’d ask me to cosplay for him, something I no longer wanted to do, even though he’d willingly wear the uncomfortable costumes I made for him at conventions he hated.

Our lack of intimacy became a massive issue. We tried counseling. The counselor suggested my husband was a borderline s*x addict, but one who only desired me. I got myself checked out and learned I had low estrogen. Medication didn’t help. My doctor eventually diagnosed me with female impotence, a condition I thought was made up.

The affair was not planned. It wasn’t romantic or grand. It just… happened. I was out bowling with my friends from church, the first time we’d all gathered since the lockdowns. At the end of the night, instead of driving home buzzed, I went to the lounge to wait it out. That’s where I met him. He was young, in his early twenties, and he noticed the manga I was reading on my phone.

We started talking. I wish I could blame the alcohol, but I was only buzzed. I wish I could blame loneliness, but my husband smothered me with attention. I wish I could say I was in an unhappy marriage, but we were happy. To this day, I don’t truly know why I did it.

We talked for hours. He flirted, and I flirted back. He walked me to my car and kissed me. Instead of pushing him away, I kissed him back. We ended up in the motel next door. He tried to get me to go down on him, and I refused. The act itself was unsatisfying. Halfway through, the crushing weight of what I was doing hit me. I shoved him off, apologized frantically, got dressed, and fled.

When I got home, my husband and our kids were asleep on the sofa. I went straight to the shower and cried, scrubbing my skin as if I could wash away the guilt. I told myself it was a one-time mistake, a secret I would carry to my grave. I crawled into bed, curled into a ball, and wept myself to sleep.

For five weeks, I pretended it never happened. I buried the memory, walled it off. Then I realized I was late. A pregnancy test confirmed my worst fear. It made no sense. My husband had a vasectomy. I made sure the man from the motel wore protection, and even then, he never finished.

My doctor’s visit was an awkward, horrifying ordeal. The conclusion was that the man must have removed the condom. The doctor mentioned it could have been the pre-ejaculate. I was terrified. I scheduled an abortion. I could not keep this child. I could not do that to my husband.

I came home that day, a wreck, trying to compose myself before the kids got home. But my husband was already there, home early from work. I forced a smile, but it dissolved when I saw his face.

“Our health insurance just emailed me a new claim,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Who is the father?”

Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t speak.

“Who. Is. The. Father?” he repeated, the words like stones. He then asked how long the affair had been going on.

I was truthful. I told him it was a one-time thing, that I pushed the man off me. He didn’t believe me. He repeated the question, but this time he roared, the sound vibrating through my bones. I insisted it was the truth. He grabbed me by the chin, his grip like iron, and slammed me against the wall. It was the first time he had ever laid a hand on me in anger. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was fighting back tears of his own.

He demanded details. What did we do? What did he look like? Where did we meet? Then he hissed a Spanish slur at me and stormed out of the house. I collapsed, crying, and called my sister to pick up the kids. I needed to be alone.

He didn’t come home until after midnight. I met him at the door and gasped. He had a black eye, his shirt was stained with blood, and his knuckles were bruised and split open.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

He shoved past me. “It’s not my blood,” he snarled, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

I waited on the stairs. When he came out, he sneered at me and went to the living room. I followed, pleading, wanting to know who he fought with. He ignored me. Finally, he looked at me, his eyes filled with a chilling emptiness.

“Who do you think I fought?” he said.

The blood drained from my face. The next day, I went to the bowling alley and asked around. Somehow, my husband had found him. A fight in the alley was a common occurrence in our town; the sheriff rarely bothered to show up unless someone was stabbed or shot.

For the next week, he kicked me out of our bedroom. I tried twice to sneak back in. The first time, he screamed at me to get out. The second time, he physically shoved me off the bed. I hit the floor with a thud. I just looked up at him, speechless, before retreating to the sofa to cry.

On the day of my appointment, he told me, “You better get it done.” I nodded, terrified to go alone. When I asked him to come with me, he looked at me with pure, undiluted hatred. “Go f*ck yourself,” he said.

When I returned, pods were lined up outside the garage. My husband and his friends were emptying it.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“None of your effing business,” he shot back. His friends looked at him in shock.

Hours later, the sound of hammering filled the house. He was turning the garage into an apartment for himself. The first month was a nightmare. He would come home, check on the kids, ignore me completely, and disappear into his new space. The second month, I begged him to go to counseling. He went, but he remained silent until the counselor prompted him, at which point he would only yell at me about my cheating.

Then came the gut punch. I learned he had been sleeping with other women.

“How many?” the counselor asked gently during one session.

He laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “I don’t keep count. Random women, almost every other day for the past three weeks. I needed to feel like a man again. I needed to feel wanted.”

When the counselor told him two wrongs don’t make a right, he fired back. “This isn’t about two wrongs! She’s the one who cheated. She broke our vows, got pregnant with another man’s child, and tried to hide it. I’m just adapting to my new reality, where we are roommates who play the happy couple for everyone else.”

It hurt, but a sick part of me saw it as a sign he still cared enough to want to hurt me. One night, I told him I wanted a divorce. He laughed in my face.

“Go right ahead,” he dared me. “But I will make sure everyone knows what you did. I’ll scream it from the hills. I’ll post it on our family’s Facebook page. It will be the star of our annual holiday newsletter.”

That shut me up. The argument escalated, and somehow, the raw emotion turned into something else. We had intense, desperate intimacy that lasted for hours. When we were done, I felt a flicker of hope. I thought we were healing.

He stood up, pulling away from me. “Get out,” he said, his voice cold. “Your usefulness has expired.”

For the past few months, that has been our pattern. Every once in a while, we fall into bed together, and as soon as he’s finished, he kicks me out. During one session, he told the counselor that something inside him was broken. When he looks at me, all he sees are wasted years.

“Is there any way we can start over?” I pleaded.

“The day the kids are old enough that I don’t have to pay child support,” he said, his voice flat, “I will be divorcing you.” Then he walked out.

If he’s so set on leaving, why does he still go to counseling every week? I have to believe he’s just saying these things to hurt me. The other day was our anniversary. Our family threw us a party, and he played the part of the devoted husband perfectly. He held my hand, kissed my cheek, and even gave a sappy speech that made everyone tear up. I wanted to believe it so badly.

When we got home, after the kids were in bed, I initiated. We were together again, but as soon as it was over, he got up and left for the garage. I begged him to stay, but he didn’t even turn around. I want my husband back. I want our life back. How do I fix this?

My wife showed me her post. She asked me if I thought I was acting like a monster. The truth is, I don’t know what I am anymore. I’m hurt. I’m angry. And I need to say my piece.

She left out a critical detail: my wife has Atypical Autism with Savant syndrome. She can hear a song once and play it flawlessly. She can look at a person and know their measurements perfectly, able to craft any piece of clothing for them. When I met her, everyone told me not to date her, that she wasn’t “right in the head.” But I was drawn to her. I loved that she came to school every day in costumes she made, and I’d ask her about every character. Seeing her face light up when she explained an anime or a comic book put a smile on my face.

I did the work. In the 90s, I went to libraries and clinics, speaking to anyone I could to understand her condition. I wanted to be with her because she was worth it. My friends and family thought I was insane. Even her parents were against it. But I didn’t care. I loved her. I dealt with her tantrums, her sensory overloads, all of it.

She wanted a cosplay wedding, so we had a cosplay wedding. For twenty-six years, our intimate life was on her terms. We’d be physical anywhere from one to six times a month, and sometimes not at all. I dealt with her mood swings, her obsessions, and her overwhelming fear that our children would inherit her ASD. I wanted more children, but because of her fears, I got a vasectomy. That messed with me for a while.

Being with someone with ASD is not what you see on TV. The shows get the person right, but they don’t show the reality for the family. My wife eventually stopped initiating affection. She never said “I love you” first. A kiss, a touch, leaning against me on the couch—it was always a response, never an action she began. And I was blind to how much it was costing me because I loved her.

The lack of intimacy was killing me. I tried to spice things up, but she would “yes” me to death, agreeing to things and then finding a reason not to do them. Have I ever thought of cheating? Never. Have I had opportunities? Plenty.

So when I got that email notifying me of a pregnancy claim on our insurance, I didn’t take it well. I did put my hands on her. I was shattered. This was the love of my life, the only woman I had ever vowed my loyalty to, and she had cheated. I found the guy at the bowling alley and I attacked him. Was it wrong? Maybe. But it felt good.

The lawyers all told me the same thing. Because of her ASD and our two children, after alimony and child support, I’d be left with maybe $750 a month. It was more financially viable to stay married. So I built the apartment in the garage. And yes, I made sure she got that abortion. Why would I want a constant, living reminder of her betrayal in my house? I would never have been a father to that child.

A few days later, for the first time in my life, I downloaded Tinder. I was intimate with another woman. I felt sick with guilt, but she made me feel wanted. And it felt good. So I went overboard. It wasn’t about the act itself; it was about the affection, the initiation—the things I had been starved of for years.

My wife keeps saying she doesn’t know why she cheated. This woman can recall every minute detail of a random Tuesday from fifteen years ago, but this one memory “slips her mind.” I call bullsh*t.

The times we’ve hooked up since then… it’s not the same. It feels like a performance. She’s not with me because she wants me; she’s with me because she wants to fix her mistake. And I feel it every single time. So I kick her out. I told her this, and she was shocked. She insisted she wanted me, that she wanted us to be the same. But it will never be the same.

I’ve started seeing a therapist on my own. I even had my kids tested to make sure they were mine. They are. My wife tried to get our counselor to administer sodium pentothal so she could “prove” she never cheated before. I told her it wouldn’t make a difference.

I deleted the apps. I haven’t been with anyone else for months. For our anniversary, we were intimate. But I could feel it again—it was an obligation. So I left. I told her if she truly wanted to fix this, she needed to tell her parents what happened. My family would just tell me to leave her. Her parents could help her navigate this, especially if I decide I can’t stay. Our oldest is 11. I could be stuck here for another eight years.

Can I forgive her? I don’t know. But I will never forget. When I look at her now, I no longer see the woman I would have done anything for. I no longer see my wife. I see the woman who broke my heart

It’s been three months. Progress is slow, hard-won. Shortly after my husband’s post, we told my parents. Their reaction was not what I expected. They were angry… at him.

They told him something like this was bound to happen. That because of my ASD, I was gullible and suggestible, and that his mistake was treating me like a “normal” person. His decision to not constantly manage me, they said, is what led to my affair.

This infuriated him. For the first time in my life, I saw him scream at my parents. It triggered a sensory outburst in me, but through the haze of my own pain, a memory surfaced. I remembered why I went with that man.

But I was more concerned about my husband. He broke down completely, yelling and crying at my parents. For the first time since this all began, he wept. I pushed through my own anxiety and went to him, to comfort him.

When we got home, I told him everything. I explained how the man approached me, how we talked about manga, and how I was just trying to wait out the buzz from my drinks. When I said I had to leave, he insisted on walking me to my car. When he kissed me, I just let it happen. I was afraid of making a stranger upset with me. I know it’s no excuse. What I did was stupid, selfish, and wrong. I kept talking, and for the first time, he just listened. I could see the anger in his eyes, but he held it back.

A week later, he started attending a support group for betrayed spouses. He even took me to a meeting once. Hearing his pain, and then hearing the identical pain from a room full of strangers, was crushing.

Last month, things felt better. He moved back into the house. We weren’t normal, but we were finding a new rhythm. Two weeks ago, he surprised me with a dinner date. We were talking, laughing. For a moment, I saw a glimpse of the man I married. I felt… hope.

Then our waiter showed up.

It was him. The man from the motel.

In a split second, my husband transformed from a sweet, laughing man into a rampaging beast. He launched himself at the waiter and beat him senseless. The screaming was too much. My husband, even in his rage, noticed my distress, placed my noise-canceling headset over my ears, and escorted me out of the restaurant.

The police never came to our house.

He’s been back in the garage ever since. He’s going to his support group, his therapist, and our counselor. He is struggling so hard.

And I wish, more than anything in the world, that I could just undo it all. I miss us. I miss him.

I don’t know whether to call myself a narcissist or just delusional. Maybe I’m both. All I know is my life ended two years ago, and I’m still trying to figure out why.

My wife ghosted me. After ten years together—eight of them married—she just vanished. I came home one afternoon to a house that felt hollow, empty. Her things were gone. Panic seized me. I called her phone over and over, but it didn’t even ring. Then I saw the papers on the dining room table. Divorce papers. Underneath them was a single, brutal note: This is what you do with cheaters.

That was the last thing I ever heard from her.

I know I screwed up. I cheated. It was once, just one damn time, a meaningless fling at the gym. I don’t even know how she found out. I never got the chance to ask, to explain, to beg. Her lawyer became a stone wall between us, relaying only that she refused to see or speak to me.

I refused to accept it. Ten years, thrown away like garbage for a single mistake. I know I failed her, but I always believed I could fix it. I could make that sweet girl I met a decade ago fall in love with me again. Couples go through this all the time and survive. Why couldn’t we?

The past two years have been a living hell. It’s a unique kind of torture, not being able to see or hear the person you love most. I became a zombie, running on autopilot, fueled by an unhealthy amount of alcohol. My therapist says that without closure, the mind can’t process the end of a relationship. You’re always waiting for them to walk through the door.

The divorce was finalized a year ago. I fought it, of course. I begged for couples therapy. She refused. When it was over, I felt like a piece of me had been physically carved out.

A few days ago, my world shattered all over again. I was drunk, sitting at home with my friend, Nick. I started talking about her, as I always do.

“You should really put more effort into getting over her,” he said, his tone strangely confident. “She’s over you. She’s happy now, living her life. You should do the same.”

How could he know that? Something in his certainty set me on edge. I pressed him, begging, crying, demanding he tell me what he knew. Finally, he broke.

His wife, Sabrina, had been in contact with my ex-wife for the last year. My ex-wife… she moved to Norway. She got married. And she’s seven months pregnant.

The information felt like a fatal blow. While I was here, drowning in my misery, wanting to die every single day, she was on the other side of the world, happily getting married and pregnant with another man’s child. How? We tried for years to have a child. I had started to think she was infertile. How could she get pregnant so easily with this new guy?

My only explanation is that it was revenge. She had a one-night stand with the first Norwegian she met, got pregnant, and married him to stay in the country legally. I refuse to believe she’s in love with him.

I feel like I’m going insane. I need to talk to her. I need answers. I still want her back, even now. This has to be a nightmare.

I posted my story online, looking for empathy. Instead, I was torn to shreds. They called me a narcissist, a monster. They said I never loved her, or I wouldn’t have cheated. How can they know what’s in my heart? There hasn’t been a single day since she left that I haven’t regretted what I did. That is a kind of love, isn’t it? A painful, punishing love.

Everyone assumes she’s happy. How do they know? Being pregnant and married isn’t a guarantee of happiness. Maybe she’s trapped. Maybe she married this guy because she got pregnant and felt alone in a foreign country. I know I’m to blame for putting her in that position. If I had been a better husband, none of this would have happened.

People took issue with me calling it a “mistake.” How else should I describe it? I’m trying to accept the blame, but my words get twisted. The pain I caused her is immense—I know that. A woman doesn’t leave her entire life behind unless she’s in absolute agony. I see that. I feel that. And it makes my guilt even heavier.

These past few days have been a blur. The post reached my social circle. Sabrina, Nick’s wife, is furious with him for telling me. Nick is furious with me for posting online. And I’m furious with both of them for watching me suffer for two years while they held the key to the answers I desperately needed. They cared more about their friendship with my ex than helping me save my marriage. I’m done with them.

Fueled by anger, I started digging. I created a fake Instagram account to follow her relatives, but found nothing. Then, I remembered a strange name in her family’s friend list, a Norwegian woman. I found the woman’s Facebook profile. It was open. I scrolled through pictures of flowers and mountains until I found it: a picture of my ex-wife in a wedding dress, hugging some guy. The caption, translated, was the woman congratulating her son on his wedding.

The date was from a year ago. She married him before she got pregnant. Then I found another photo, from February 2023. She left me in May 2022. How was she in a serious relationship, meeting his family, only nine months later? What the hell is going on?

For those picturing some Norwegian Chris Hemsworth, you’re wrong. The guy is too tall, too blonde, and looks more like a cartoon Viking than a movie star. His profile says he’s an engineer—the same profession as me. He wears heavy metal t-shirts. My wife always liked that music, which I found obnoxious. Maybe that’s how they connected. Honestly, she can do better.

I’m not going to Norway. I’m not going to contact her. But if, by some miracle, this post reaches her, I want her to know I still love her. She knows how to find me.

And if this reaches the new guy: the only reason you have her is because a big idiot halfway across the world completely ruined the best thing he ever had. You met a broken woman and took advantage. You trapped her with a baby. You don’t know how to play fair.

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