Part 2: I Stayed When I Should Have Left

The first breach of trust

And just three months after he whisked me away in my Pop-pop’s tan convertible Mercedes, my wedding dress gently blowing in the wind, it happened.

The first breach of trust.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

It was the first time I realized that he had been lying to me since the first day I met him.

I struggle to find the words to accurately describe how that day felt.

I remember sitting on the bed, in my mom’s 200-year-old farmhouse that I grew up in, where we were temporarily living with her after the wedding.

When I first confronted him, he denied it. Absolutely not. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I asked him for hours. Even though I wanted to curl up into a ball and pretend nothing was happening—I knew. I knew.

How do you go through that kind of emotional agony? Torn between two truths—even though you know that one is a lie, you so badly want to believe it is not, you love them with a love so fierce you would do anything to help them, to save them, to make this not true, but as the minutes passed by, my gut screaming over and over, the illusion of who I believed him to be slipping between my fingers…

At some point, he started to crack.

That’s when it started.

It felt like nausea that gripped my stomach for weeks. Loss of appetite. Mind racing, heart palpitating.

It felt like a nightmare, one that I so badly wanted to wake up from, but I couldn’t, because it was real. It was really happening.

It felt like the kind of betrayal that makes your skin crawl, your brain saying over and over again, this can’t be happening, but your sick stomach saying, it actually is.

I should have left then. I wish that I had left then.

I should have walked out the door and not looked back.

But I didn’t.

I stayed.

Because I was afraid.

I was afraid of what life would look like without him.

I was afraid of what it would feel like if I were alone.

We didn’t even get professional help. It was kept quiet. It was dealt with behind closed doors, with only a few select individuals that were forced into the situation because of the extremely unsettling and disturbing nature.

With prayers, scriptures, and platitudes.

I was trying to protect him, trying to shield him from further embarrassment. I didn’t realize how carefully he had the entire situation controlled, maneuvering things toward the outcome that most benefited him. That protected him. That kept him away from any real consequences. Even then, my instinct was still to protect him before myself.

But in those weeks to come, he turned the level up on what he does best.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

I’m so ashamed.

Please forgive me.

I didn’t actually mean to.

It just happened.

But I deleted it right away.

It will never happen again.

I swear.

I will never break your heart again.

I swear.

Now you know everything.

Everything is in the light.

Now we can start clean.

I’m a new man.

There are no more secrets.

If I could go back in time… I am screaming, and crying, and pleading with myself at 21 years old. Don’t listen to him. He’s a liar. He’s lying to you. This isn’t everything. This isn’t even 1% of the truth. Leave. Leave right now. Get up off of that bed, walk out that front door, and don’t look back. Save yourself. Save your future babies.

But I didn’t leave.

I stayed. He begged, and cried, and pleaded, and he said everything right. He took all of my doubt, all of my pain, and that oozing wound that was screaming, “You absolutely, 100% can never trust him, ever again”, and like putty in his hands, he sculpted and molded until it was something else entirely.

Tears streaming down my face, arms wrapped around him tightly. I love you. I forgive you. I will help you. I am here for you. I want to help you be better. Tell me the truth. Tell me everything.

The anthem to our marriage.

As the months passed into years, I gave birth to our first baby boy. And then our second. My heart expanded and grew in ways I didn’t even know were physically possible. Motherhood became one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life. But I poured so much of myself into my children that I began to lose myself in motherhood.

I knew he wasn’t safe for me emotionally. I knew I couldn’t trust him. I knew that the distance I felt between us, so thick it was almost palpable, was not healthy. So I poured out every fiber of being into being a mom.

Being a mom made sense to me. It felt natural. It was the one area of my life where I could pour out my love unconditionally. There were no strings attached. My boys were precious, and innocent, and I knew that they deserved my love. It was the one area where I was not afraid to give, never having to worry that if I gave too much I would end up even more broken-hearted.

My marriage was not all heartbreak and agony. That’s what makes it so hard. That’s what makes it so confusing for my brain. How to make sense of what was true and what was not? How to know if it was all lies?

Were any of those precious moments with him actually real?

The Star Wars marathons, our favorite take-out scattered on the marble coffee table, the boyish sparkle in his eye and the grin on his face he couldn’t wipe away. In those moments, we felt 15 again, and he was the kind, gentle, quiet boy I fell in love with.

The walks to the orange playground up the street, one son propped up on his shoulders, the other gripping his finger. Soccer in the grass, both boys squealing with delight as he let them steal the ball from him, over and over again.

The birth of our second child, the concerned line between his eyes, his hands gripping mine, never letting me go, no matter how hard I squeezed. Steady, reassuring, his hands pressed on my lower back, helping me through each contraction. Few words came out of his mouth, but him being there was all I needed.

Sunday mornings in the sanctuary, his hands raised to heaven, eyes closed tightly, sometimes a tear or two dripping down his face. Contrite, remorseful, asking for help.

Or was he just playing the part? Waking up every single morning, reading his script for the day, rehearsing in the shower, getting dressed in his costume.

Model husband. Model father. Emotionally attuned, goes above and beyond to support his wife. Cooks dinner multiple times a week, helps with the grocery shopping. Stays up late cleaning the kitchen. Knows how to scrub a bathroom until it sparkles. Buys thoughtful and intentional gifts for birthday and Christmas, knows how to plan a kick ass date night, complete with chilled champagne, my favorite snacks lined up, soft music playing in the background.

Wakes up in the middle of the night to change dirty diapers, helps with bathing and feeding. Encourages me and urges me to go to that girls’ night, go on a solo Target trip, escape to Starbucks for a few hours with my favorite book in hand. Would push back the start of his remote meeting in the morning so I could go to the gym before the boys woke up. He really was the model husband. Everyone in my life constantly gloating, “You are so lucky. He is so helpful. He is so involved. I can’t believe how much he is willing to watch the kids while you go out. What a gem.”

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If you’re new here and would like to start at the beginning, you can read Part 1 here.

For years, I struggled to make sense of what was true and what was not. Now, I am finally ready to tell my story.

Thank you for reading.

To be continued in Part 3.