I came home expecting the usual quiet evening. Instead, I found candles flickering, soft music playing, and my husband Simon smiling nervously beside a beautifully set dinner table. It was unlike him—he was never one for grand gestures. I was touched, but something felt… off.
As we ate, I noticed his hands trembled slightly. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. I asked if something was wrong. He brushed it off, saying he just wanted to do something nice. But the tension in the room was thick.
After dinner, he washed the dishes—another rarity. Then, as we sipped wine, I joked, “Are you buttering me up for something?” He froze. I pressed. And then, the truth spilled out.
“I’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I’ve been seeing someone… from work. And she might be pregnant. With twins.”
I felt the world tilt. The romantic dinner was a smokescreen. My heart shattered. But the worst was yet to come.
He made a call. The door creaked open. And in walked my sister.
I fainted.
When I came to, she was fanning me. Simon handed me water. I stared at them, the two people I trusted most, now united in betrayal. My sister was the woman he’d been seeing. The one carrying his children.
They claimed it wasn’t planned. That it “just happened.” But their excuses were hollow. I told them both to leave.
That night, I cried myself to sleep. The dinner, the confession, the betrayal—it all played on repeat in my mind. My trust was gone. My marriage, destroyed. My sister, a stranger.
Now, I sit in silence, trying to rebuild myself from the wreckage. That dinner wasn’t a celebration—it was a funeral for the life I thought I had.
