I always believed that my marriage was unshakable, a fortress built on trust and mutual respect. My husband was my rock, and I was his. However, my world came crashing down one fateful evening when I discovered his infidelity—blatantly, in front of everyone at a family gathering. He didn’t try to hide it; he didn’t even seem remorseful. Instead, he turned to me and spat venomous words I never expected to hear: “You’ve stopped being a woman for me.”
His audacity left me reeling, and my heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. I sought solace in my family, hoping for comfort and understanding, but even my own mother coldly advised, “All men cheat. Accept it.” Those words echoed in my mind, compounding my heartbreak with betrayal from those I trusted most.
Fueled by a tumultuous mix of anger, hurt, and desperation, I stormed out, tears blurring my vision. I wandered the streets, my mind a chaotic swirl of thoughts. That’s when I saw him—a disheveled figure, a homeless man hunched over a piece of bread, seemingly invisible to the world. In my grief-stricken state, an insane idea took root. I approached him, and in a moment of reckless abandon, decided to sleep with him. It was a cruel act of revenge against my husband, a misguided attempt to reclaim my shattered self-esteem.
