Cancun. A paradise of sun-kissed beaches and turquoise waters now tainted by the sting of his betrayal.
The seductive photos of his mistress at our Cancun timeshare were a confirmation of my worst fears — of what I’d long suspected. Each photo was a gut punch, a cold fist twisting within me.
His mistress, wearing little more than a coy smile and thong, posed provocatively for him. It felt taunting — as though her smirk was meant for me. A cruel mockery to the memories of family vacations we’d cherished.
In one of the pictures, she held the same parrot our children had held for family photos. In another, she was laughing with a woman by the pool — whether friends or lovers was hard to tell. Their eyes were tired and heavy, like they’d had one too many nights out drinking. Their smiles felt empty, their eyes lacking the telltale lines of joy.
Twenty-two years. Nine children. A lifetime of memories and shared dreams, reduced to a slideshow of his deceit. His mistress was young, tall, and curvy in all the right places. But it was easy to see through her facade — I could have saved him the money and heartache — my middle-aged husband wasn’t her type.
He’d flown her in from Brazil, paying for their paradise: beautiful clothing, rooftop dining, island excursions, an endless showering of whatever she desired.
It was a blessing and curse — a twisted kind of gift — to have all the evidence laid out before me, exposing his betrayal, his mistress. Three weeks of carefree fun and adventures, each day filled with whatever their hearts desired.
The temptation was too great not to look, but it came with a heavy price. Each of these revelations was a sucker punch without end.
I’d have sworn on everything that mattered in life that I’d gone above and beyond, that I was a good wife. I’d always prided myself in the strength of our bond. I’d held on throughout our better and worse, given him all of me, and never gave up on us. Yet, here we were.
What I hadn’t considered was no matter how hard I tried, the choice to cheat had always been in his hands, never in mine.
I struggled to grasp his deception. I finally had the proof I needed to confront him, this time, there’d be no denying the truth. But I needed to let this sit, to allow my emotions to settle — anger and sadness were at an all-time battle.
The next day, I sunk into my worn leather chair in the office we once shared. Our desks had faced each other, a place where we came to work on the business we’d grown together. Now my desk faced the window. I glanced out and saw my daughter jumping on the vibrant-colored trampoline. My heart softened as I watched her, but a bitter reminder rose in my throat.
She was going to grow up without a father.
Tears came and I cried like a sobbing baby. Our family was never going to be the same. Our children were watching us, learning what it meant to be a husband, a wife, a father, and a mother. We represented what family was supposed to look like. And no matter what I did, I could never erase what had been done.
I remember how sorry my husband felt for a little girl whose parents were going through a divorce. The father was having an affair. My husband said a child needs their father, he shouldn’t be out chasing another life. He’d made his choices and it was his duty to honor them.
Yet, here we are, his family, left with empty words and promises. I picked up our family photo that sat on my desk, placing it face down. I felt like I failed my kids, it was just too much.
I sat up straight and picked up the phone, punching in his number, my chin set.
“What?” He gruffly answered.
“Remember your 3-week trip with work buddies to Cancun?”
“What’s your point?” He blurted.
“My point,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady, “Is that I know about your business trip to Cancun. The women — the photos. All the charges. All the money — our money — you’ve spent on her.”
A long silence hung in the air. I could picture him scrambling for an excuse. But there wasn’t one.
“Who told you that?” he finally sputtered, his voice filled with anger.
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “What matters is I know. You lied to us.”
The silence returned, heavier this time. I could almost hear his mind racing, trying to decide just how much I knew.
“Yeah well, so what? He yelled out. I don’t want to be with you anymore. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean I have to stay with you. This is my second chance in life — I deserve that. I deserve happiness.”
“Deserve? What about what your kids deserve? You threw your family away for some… some Brazilian fling?”
“It’s not a fling. She makes me feel alive. I’m doing things I used to love to do. We go out dancing, we have fun, I’m enjoying my life. You’ve tied me down for far too long.”
I opened my mouth to respond but he continued.
“Now you’re going to see what life is like without me — and the money. You think money doesn’t buy happiness, so now you can see how wrong you are. See how far living on love gets you,” he scoffed. “You should’ve done more to keep me.”
“Do you really think she cares about you?” She sees you for what you are, a middle-aged man with a wallet full of cash and a wish to be young.”
“You don’t know anything about her. She’s not like that.”
“Why don’t you stop giving her money and gifts and see how long she stays?” I challenged.
He was silent for a moment and sighed deep frustration. Then, he ripped me into pieces all over again.
“I don’t love you. I shouldn’t have ever married you, it was my biggest mistake in life. I wish I could do it all over again.
A do-over. As if life with nine children could simply be reset?
“How could you say that?” I asked.
He hung up without saying anything more.
I sat with his words, wondering how we’d gotten to this place. How could my once proud family man become someone who took selfies and posted them on Instagram? He used to despise social media.
I remembered our weekend camping trips at one or another KOA. He’d tell the kids ghost stories over the campfire while we made s’mores. He swore the small Mexican town he grew up in was haunted and had an endless supply of first-hand accounts. The kids couldn’t get enough, begging him to repeat the tales one after the other.
A deep feeling of anger and hurt spread through me. I stared out the window; the trampoline felt like a mockery of the life we’d built. My daughter’s laughter pierced my heart with sadness.
I jotted down his spendings to send to my lawyer, trying to reframe it as bookkeeping. I mean, when you strip away the emotional side of it, going through a divorce is just a business transaction, right? But it sure didn’t feel that way.
Months passed and he was head over heels with his long-distance mistress, who was still in Brazil. He took care of her — restaurant dinners throughout the week, a gym membership, mini vacations, flowers, clothes, chocolates, and other trinkets.
And then there was that one note, “Por favor, manda grana, Papi?” — Please, send money, Daddy?
I imagined him telling her: Si, mi amor, anything.
I’m familiar with a sugar daddy, but I never imagined my husband as one. Everything was all there, laid bare for me to see — a breadcrumb trail of his infidelity.
He didn’t bother to hide it anymore.
The weight of his betrayal was suffocating. Each time I saw the purchases for her, it was like a fresh blow to my bruised heart. It was nauseating to imagine him romancing her. Something he never did for me.
When I confronted him about all the money he was spending on the gifts, he laughed and said, “It’s because we’re still new. Right now, it’s like I’m fishing and I need to give her bait to reel her in.”
Had I ever really known this man?
His spending was documented proof — ammunition for our pending divorce, yet each transaction felt like a slap in the face. I needed to stop this cycle, it was too much. This wasn’t healthy for me. I needed to focus on the kids and myself. To get us back to okay — his actions were no longer my concern.
It was high past time to convince my heart to catch up.
His long-distance relationship, a carefree existence with no obligations, yet all the perks continued on. Around Christmas he went on a nearly 3-month trip to Brazil to be with her, visiting countries in South America.
There were no presents or phone calls wishing the kids a Merry Christmas — our favorite holiday wrapped in family traditions.
He left us behind and let all his obligations slip. He left me to pick up the shattered pieces in every way imaginable.
I knew I needed to move forward, to protect my children and myself. But how? How do you rebuild a life shattered by deceit and abandonment on all levels?
We hardly heard a word those three months. He was too busy with his new life, spending time with her. When he came back, he brought a few of the kids to a movie a couple of times but that was it. Nothing was the same.
Our divorce was at a standstill and we were stuck in a battle — he didn’t feel he should have to give me anything. “You’re nothing but a lazy gold digger, you should be working. Even my new woman works. You’re not my responsibility anymore,” he said.
“A gold digger?” The irony almost felt laughable.
One day I found a Western Union receipt showing he’d sent thousands of dollars to her in Brazil. He was still pouring our money into her, clinging to their happily ever after. He must’ve had suspicions though, because he hired private investigators — more than once — to check up on her.
He wanted her to come over here and be with him. But the universe, it seems, has a sense of humor.
She, the young, unburdened, free spirit, must not have had a desire to be tied down. Perhaps the thought of taking on the mundane responsibilities of a wife and stepmother wasn’t too appealing.
Apparently, it was a hard no.
I watched him unravel. He played macho, calling her all the names in the book, as if the venom in his voice would mask his pain.
I thought maybe — just maybe — he’d realize his mistakes. That our kids could be front and center once again. For me it was over, we were done. Our once-solid foundation was broken, the trust was gone and without that, there was nothing left.
But the kids still needed their dad.
I remember when we bought our timeshare in Cancun. We’d talked endlessly about future family vacation plans and eventually bringing grandkids with us one day.
Making a stew in the kitchen, I watched my kids playing Monopoly, their game pieces advancing across the familiar squares. I wondered how I could ever possibly make this okay for them. Yet, instead of sadness, a resolve began to take shape within me. I wasn’t going to let this break me — my children needed me.
In all honesty, it felt good to know he was feeling a loss — that life was teaching him the golden rule — to treat others how we wish to be treated. But it didn’t last. My moment of feeling a somewhat twisted sense of satisfaction was short-lived.
He soon told me he’d moved on with another Brazilian — this was the “one,” he proclaimed. Educated, smart, and a good person who knew how life was supposed to be lived. Good morals. Young. No kids. No ties.
The same alluring type he seemed drawn to while scrolling through international dating sites and WhatsApp.
But who knows, maybe this is the one, his happiness ever after.
He’s still sending money through Western Union to Brazil, just now, to a different address.
It could almost be comical if it weren’t so tragic.
Though he didn’t go about ending our story in a way I’d have willingly chosen, I can say with absolute certainty things turned out exactly as should be. But hindsight works that way, we never fully see the lessons or blessings until we’re through it.
His betrayal wasn’t the end of my story, but rather a nudge for new beginnings.
Our worth is not defined by another’s love — or lack thereof — we’re much more than enough without them. It’s a message worth repeating because it can so easily be forgotten. And while endings may not turn out the way we envision, sometimes it’s the path we never would’ve chosen that releases us, gifting us our freedom.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Melissa Walker Horn on Unsplash
