Fourteen years of marriage, two beautiful children, and a life I thought was unshakable. Then, one evening, it all came crashing down when Stan brought her into our home. That moment marked the end of my old life and the start of a journey that would transform me.

Before it all unraveled, my days were a busy blur of carpools, homework help, and family dinners. I lived for my spirited 12-year-old, Lily, and my curious 9-year-old, Max. Life wasn’t perfect, but I believed we were a happy family. I thought Stan and I had built something strong—a life we’d forged together, surviving countless challenges side by side.

But in hindsight, the cracks had been forming for months. Late nights at work became the norm for Stan. Deadlines, he said. Career sacrifices. I didn’t question it because I trusted him. But trust can be as fragile as glass, shattering in an instant.

That fateful Tuesday began like any other. I was stirring a pot of Lily’s favorite soup when the front door opened, followed by the unfamiliar sound of heels on the hardwood floor. I glanced at the clock—Stan was home early. Wiping my hands, I walked into the living room, and there they stood: Stan and her.