Three years had passed since I lost my husband, Mark, in a factory accident. I thought I’d never find light in my life again. Those days were just me and my little girl, Emily, quietly living in a house full of memories. That is, until James came along. He entered our lives like a gentle breeze, bringing a glimmer of hope I thought had faded forever.
James was a construction engineer with a warm smile and bright eyes. He’d tell funny stories about his job, teach Emily how to make kites, and cook simple, cozy dinners with me. After a year of dating, I said yes to his proposal. “You deserve to be happy, Mom,” Emily told me the night before the wedding, her eyes sparkling. I believed we’d found a new family.
But that happiness didn’t last. One evening, as I washed dishes in the kitchen, Emily crept up to me, clutching the hem of her shirt. “Mom, I need to talk,” she said, her voice trembling. I sat down and pulled her close. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“James told me not to tell you,” she whispered, “but last week, I saw him in the basement with a strange woman. He said it was our little secret.”
My heart stopped. The basement—where James claimed he fixed things in his “workshop”—was a place I rarely visited. “Are you sure?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. Emily nodded, her eyes welling up. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I quietly set up a small hidden camera in the basement, near his toolbox. Two days later, when James said he had to “work late” down there, I checked the footage. The screen showed James with a woman, laughing intimately. She called him “honey,” and he hugged her, whispering something I couldn’t hear. My blood ran cold.
The next morning, I confronted him. “Explain this,” I said, slamming my phone on the table, the video paused on him and the woman. James paled, stammering, “You’ve got it wrong, Sarah. She’s just a coworker.”
“A coworker you meet in our basement at 10 p.m.?” I snapped. “I’m not stupid, James.”
Finally, he dropped his head and confessed. Her name was Lisa, and she’d been with him long before he met me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said weakly. “But you had a house, stability. I needed that for my future.”
I laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. “So you married me for money? For this house?” He didn’t answer, just stared at the floor. I took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of strength I had left. “Get out. Now.”
After he left, I sank onto the couch. Emily ran over and hugged me tight. “Don’t be sad, Mom. We don’t need him. We’ve got each other,” she said firmly. I stroked her hair, tears streaming down my face. “Yeah, I’ve got you. That’s enough.”
Weeks later, I cleaned out the basement, tossing everything James had left behind. I found a crumpled paper kite Emily had made with him once. Holding it, I smiled faintly. Maybe fake happiness was like that kite—pretty but fragile, easily torn apart by the slightest gust. But Emily and I, we’d start over, built on truth and a love that didn’t need anyone else to define it.
