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I discovered my husband’s infidelity eight years ago. The betrayal didn’t just hurt—it hollowed me out. I thought my life was over. I cried into my pillow at night, quietly, pressing the fabric against my mouth so my husband and kids wouldn’t hear the sound of something breaking inside me.
But I didn’t leave him.
Walking away felt too small, too simple for the earthquake he had caused in my life. I wanted him to feel what I felt. I wanted him to crumble. So I made a decision—a cruel one. I was going to break him the way he broke me.
But not with screams or threats.
I chose silence. Cold, intentional silence. Not peaceful silence—the kind that strips you of warmth until you forget what softness feels like.
I became someone he couldn’t read.
I made him fall in love with me again. Every little thing he adored about me, I sharpened until it gleamed. I cooked his favorite meals when my hands trembled with anger. I wore the perfume he liked even though the scent nauseated me. I laughed at his jokes, kissed him back, held his hand in public like we were still the dream couple neighbors envied.
And it worked.
He softened. He came home earlier. He planned date nights. He’d kiss my forehead in the mornings and whisper, “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Oh, if only he knew.
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