For more than a decade, our Sundays were sacred — not because of religion, but because of pancakes, cartoons, and doing absolutely nothing. So when my husband suddenly insisted we start going to church every weekend, I never imagined the real reason would destroy everything we had.
My husband, Brian, and I had been together for 12 years, married for 10. Religion had never been part of our lives. We didn’t attend church on holidays. We didn’t get married in one. Faith simply wasn’t our thing.
I work in marketing for a nonprofit. Brian works in finance, managing corporate accounts. Our lives were busy, predictable, and comfortable. We have a daughter, Kiara, who had just turned nine.
Sundays were our reset — sleeping in, pancakes, cartoons, maybe groceries if we felt ambitious. It was our ritual. Our peace.
So when Brian casually suggested church one morning, I laughed.
“Wait… like actually going to a service?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, still focused on his eggs. “I think it’d be good for us. A reset.”
I stared at him. “You? The guy who once called church weddings ‘a hostage situation with cake’?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ve been stressed,” he said. “Work’s overwhelming. I feel burned out. Church helps me breathe.”
I studied him. He was tense. He hadn’t been sleeping well. I didn’t want to dismiss something that might help him, so when he added, “I like the pastor. The message is positive. I want something for our family — community,” I agreed.
That’s how church became our new Sunday routine.
The first service felt surreal. Everyone was warm and welcoming. The building was beautiful. Brian led us confidently to the same seats — fourth row, every time. Kiara doodled while I scanned the stained glass, wondering how long this phase would last.
But Brian looked… peaceful. He nodded during the sermon, closed his eyes during prayer, stayed afterward to chat and help.
Every week was the same.
And eventually, I convinced myself it was harmless.
Then one Sunday, after service, Brian told me to wait in the car while he used the bathroom.
Ten minutes passed. No answer to my calls. No reply to my texts.
That uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. I asked a woman from church to watch Kiara and went back inside.
The men’s bathroom was empty.
As I turned down the hallway, I noticed a half-open window overlooking the garden. Brian was there — talking to a woman I’d never seen before.
She was tall, blonde, polished. The kind of woman who looked effortlessly put together.
Brian was animated, leaning closer than he should have.
The window was cracked open.
And I heard everything.
“Do you understand what I did?” Brian said. “I brought my family here so you could see what you lost.”
My body went cold.
“We could’ve had everything — a family, more kids. If you wanted the house, the church, the picture-perfect life… I’m ready now. I’ll do anything.”
I stood frozen as my marriage collapsed in real time.
The woman responded calmly. “I feel sorry for your wife. And your daughter.”
Brian flinched.
“This obsession you’ve had since high school isn’t love,” she continued. “It’s creepy. If you contact me again, I’ll file a restraining order.”
Then she walked away.
Brian stood there, defeated.
I don’t remember how I got back to the car. Kiara was laughing, untouched by what I’d just witnessed. Brian joined us moments later, kissed her forehead, and lied easily.
“Sorry — bathroom line.”
I smiled and drove home, knowing I couldn’t confront him without proof.
The following Sunday, I waited.
After service, he said it again. “Bathroom.”
This time, I approached the blonde woman by the coffee table.
“I’m Brian’s wife,” I said.
She didn’t look surprised — just tired.
I told her I’d heard everything.
Her name was Rebecca. She showed me her phone.
Years of messages. Poems. Angry texts. Photos. All unanswered.
One recent message made my blood run cold — a picture of the church sign with the words: I see you. I know where you go now.
“He’s been doing this since we were seventeen,” she said quietly. “I’ve moved. Changed numbers. He always finds me.”
I thanked her and walked away, shaking.
That night, everything in my marriage felt counterfeit. I wasn’t the destination — I was part of the performance.
The next evening, after Kiara went to bed, I told Brian I knew the truth.
He tried to deny it. Then minimize it. Then justify it.
“She didn’t even say yes,” he said.
“That’s your defense?” I asked.
I told him my attorney would be filing for divorce.
“You used me,” I said. “You used our daughter. And I won’t let her grow up thinking this is love.”
As I left the room, I checked on Kiara, sleeping peacefully.
My heart broke — but something stronger took its place.
Resolve.
I couldn’t control what Brian had done.
But I could control what came next.
And I would never again let someone use me to chase a fantasy.
