Three years ago, I uncovered the truth: my husband had been secretly watching porn for 18 years—never once telling me, never once caring how it made me feel. When I confronted him, he dismissed it like it meant nothing. I cried. I broke. But he showed no remorse then, and still doesn’t.
I’ve come to see him clearly now—he’s a liar, a cheater, and cruel. He filled my life with deceit for over two decades, spinning lies I believed because I loved him. Now I don’t. That love has died quietly beneath his indifference and verbal cruelty.
I tread carefully around him—not out of love, but self-preservation. He’s mean, and I know too much about the man behind the mask to feel safe speaking freely. But I’m done pretending. I don’t care about him anymore. I’m planning my escape. At 64, I may be starting over, but I’m determined to do it alone, and free.
Some men deceive. I happened to marry one. But his lies don’t define me—they only fuel my will to break away.
