Last night, my husband Zubair surprised me with a romantic dinner, which was unusual. After dinner, he confessed to cheating with my cousin Afsana, who might be pregnant. Stunned, I turned to see Afsana in my home, unapologetic. She said, “You were always too comfortable,” a line that stung deeply. Zubair claimed they didn’t plan it but wanted honesty since Afsana might be pregnant. I told them to leave, drove to my sister Laleh’s, and collapsed in tears.
Zubair texted about “figuring it out,” claiming he cared, but I blocked Afsana after her weak apology. I stayed with Laleh, haunted by old photos showing subtle signs of their betrayal. I met a divorce attorney, and telling my parents was agonizing. They disowned Afsana. Later, Zubair revealed the pregnancy was a false alarm, which oddly lightened my load.
Months later, I moved into my own apartment, rebuilding my life. At a community event, Afsana approached, broken—Zubair had left her after losing his job. I felt no sympathy, saying, “You chose this.” A year later, I started volunteering and met Navin, a kind man who became more than a friend. He accepted my past, and for the first time in ages, I felt truly seen.
