You will probably never read this, but writing it is part of my healing.
You will never understand how deeply I loved you. Every part of you. Twelve years of my life went by in what feels like a blink, and I still remember the first moment I saw you in person — how stunned I was that someone like you would look at me twice. Back then you were sweet, gentle, and I believed you would never be capable of hurting me.
Before our wedding, my fear wasn’t that I was marrying the wrong person. My fear was that you were too good to be real — that I would wake up and you’d disappear like a dream.
You introduced me to things I never would have discovered without you. You made me believe I was someone worth loving. And the greatest gift you ever gave me is our two children. I will cherish them for the rest of my life.
For twelve years, I assumed you were happy. I regret that. But I also know now that nothing I could have done would have satisfied the hunger you were chasing. It wasn’t my love you were missing.
I used to fall asleep wishing I would wake up from this nightmare — that I could tell you about it and you’d say, “I could never do those things.” But you did.
The accusations you tell yourself and others — that I would ever hurt you — were the worst part. I would never have done to you what you did to me.
You tried to take my children from me. That alone made me realize I never truly knew you.
You lied. You cheated. You continued to cheat while telling me you weren’t. You gaslit me until I couldn’t eat or sleep, and then blamed me for the symptoms of the pain you caused. You spent long nights out with your boyfriend while I encouraged you to “go out with friends,” believing you were a good person who wouldn’t betray me again.
Even recently, you still claimed you weren’t interested in him — that you’d never date him, never marry him — while you were still sleeping with him as I watched our kids.
Oddly, I’m grateful for that clarity. It closed the door on any remaining feelings I had for you. I no longer hope you’ll come to your senses. I no longer hope you’ll choose your family. I no longer want you back.
He doesn’t need to worry — I don’t want you. I don’t even want to think about you. In twelve years, I hope I look back and think, “What was her name again?”
Thank you for our children. And I hope they grow up to be nothing like the person you became.