My Husband Traded Our Family of Four for His Mistress — Three Years Later, I Met Them Again, and It Was Perfectly Satisfying
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Here’s the rewritten and simplified version in English:
Three years after my husband left our family for his glamorous mistress, I saw them again in a moment that felt like fate. It wasn’t their misery that gave me peace. It was realizing how strong I had become without them.
We were married for 14 years, had two amazing kids, and a life I thought was unshakable. But everything fell apart the night Stan brought her into our house. That was the start of the hardest, yet most life-changing time for me.
Before it all happened, I was busy being a mom.
My days were full of school runs, helping with homework, and cooking dinner. My world revolved around Lily, my feisty 12-year-old, and Max, my curious 9-year-old. Life wasn’t perfect, but I thought we were happy.
Stan and I had built our life from nothing. We met at work, became friends, and soon after, he proposed. I had no reason to say no.
Over the years, we faced good and bad times, but I thought our bond was unbreakable. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Lately, Stan had been staying late at work. I thought it was normal—just work stress. He seemed distant, but I convinced myself he still cared about us.
I wish I had known the truth.
One Tuesday, I was making soup for dinner—Lily’s favorite with tiny noodles—when I heard the door open. There was the sound of high heels on the floor.
It was earlier than Stan usually came home. My stomach tightened. I called out his name, then went to the living room.
And there they were—Stan and his mistress.
She was tall and striking, with sleek hair and a sharp smile. She stood close to him, her manicured hand on his arm like she belonged there. Stan, my husband, looked at her with a warmth I hadn’t seen in months.
“Well, darling,” she said, looking at me with disdain, “you weren’t kidding. She really let herself go. Such a shame—she has good bones.”
Her words cut like a knife.
“Excuse me?” I managed to say.
Stan sighed, acting like I was being dramatic. “Lauren, we need to talk. This is Miranda. I want a divorce.”
“A divorce?” I repeated, stunned. “What about our kids? What about us?”
“You’ll figure it out,” he said coldly. “I’ll send child support. But Miranda and I are serious. I brought her here so you’d know I’m not changing my mind.”
Then he added, as if it was nothing, “Oh, and Miranda is staying over tonight. You can sleep on the couch or go to your mom’s.”
I couldn’t believe it. My anger and hurt boiled inside me, but I refused to let him see me break. I stormed upstairs, grabbed a suitcase, and started packing for the kids and me. Tears blurred my eyes, but I kept moving.
When I walked into Lily’s room, she looked up from her book and knew something was wrong.
“Mom, what’s happening?” she asked.
I stroked her hair and said gently, “We’re going to Grandma’s for a while. Pack a few things, okay?”
Max appeared in the doorway. “Why? Where’s Dad?”
I forced a smile. “Sometimes adults make mistakes. But we’ll be okay. I promise.”
They didn’t ask more, and I was grateful. As we left the house that night, I didn’t look back. The life I knew was gone, but I had to stay strong for my kids.
Driving to my mom’s house, Lily and Max slept in the back seat. My mind raced with questions. How could Stan do this? What would I tell the kids? How would we start over?
At my mom’s, I broke down in her arms. But the next days were a blur of lawyers, school drop-offs, and trying to explain the unexplainable to my children.
The divorce was quick. We sold the house, and my share bought a small two-bedroom place—a safe space for us.
The hardest part wasn’t losing the house. It was watching my kids realize their dad wasn’t coming back.
At first, Stan sent child support and called, but that didn’t last. Six months later, the payments and calls stopped. I told myself he was busy or needed time. But as months passed, it became clear he had abandoned us completely.
I later heard that Miranda convinced him to cut ties with his “old life.” And when money troubles hit, Stan didn’t have the courage to face us.
It was heartbreaking, but I had to be strong for Lily and Max. Slowly, we built a new life.
Three years later, we were thriving. Lily was in high school, and Max was excelling in robotics. Our small home was full of laughter. The past no longer haunted us.
Then one rainy afternoon, I saw Stan and Miranda at a shabby café. They looked tired and worn. Stan’s sharp suits were replaced with a wrinkled shirt, and his hair was thinning. Miranda, though dressed in designer clothes, looked faded and tired.
Stan spotted me and called out. I hesitated but approached.
He apologized and begged to see the kids. “I want to make things right,” he said.
I replied calmly, “You haven’t seen your kids in years. What makes you think you can fix it now?”
He tried to explain, but Miranda interrupted, blaming him for their financial ruin. They argued in front of me, airing years of resentment. Finally, she stood and left, saying she was done with him.
Stan turned back to me, pleading. I handed him a scrap of paper. “Here’s my number. If the kids want to talk to you, they’ll call. But you’re not coming back into our lives.”
I walked away, feeling free. My kids and I had built something strong—something no one could take away.