Husband of Lies, Son of None

At sixty-five, I got served divorce papers.

The same day, my husband Sebastian — decked out in his wedding suit, of all things — popped a handful of sleeping pills in a suicide attempt.

For years, we were the perfect couple. The kind of pair neighbors whispered about with envy.

I couldn't wrap my head around it. The divorce. The pills. None of it made sense.

Not until I found the photo and letter in his pocket.

The woman in the photo? Total stranger. Young, gorgeous, rocking a plain dress like she didn't need to try.

[Dear Rainee, I'm about to get married, but I can't sleep through the night. You're not the bride. To me, this marriage is a tragedy.]

[Rainee, I kept my promise to you. I raised our child. He's successful now, living a happy life. And I'm coming to find you.

[Rainee, wait for me.]

The handwriting hit me like a slap—Sebastian's. No mistaking it after thirty years. His bold, sweeping letters practically dripped with emotion.

What a joke.

The Rainee he loved? Not me. Never was.

And the miserable wife in his little sob story?

Yeah, that was me.

I glanced at him — lying there on the bed, cheeks flushed, lips curved in this faint, satisfied smile. Like a man who'd made peace with dying.

Sebastian Dwight.

We'd been married thirty years. And somehow, I never really knew him.

Three decades of running his house, raising his kid, pouring every ounce of myself into a life that, apparently, wasn't even mine. And what did I get? A divorce agreement. A cold, clean dismissal.

He was my husband. He'd slipped that ring on my finger.

But right now? I felt like the other woman. The side piece he never meant to keep.

He was ready to die without a shred of regret. Ready to leave me behind like old luggage.

And me?

I was stuck with the ugly truth — that after all these years, I'd lived my life as a punchline. Lied to. Played.

We shared a roof, a bed, a life.

I should've seen it.

He never loved me.

Not long after we got married, Sebastian moved into a separate room. Said his job was exhausting, that he needed proper rest.

I bought it.

He was barely home anyway. And when he was, he'd ask about his son, then shut himself away. Door closed. Conversation over.

Some months, we barely spoke.

He didn't care about me. Never did. There were no late-night talks, no shared dreams. Just silence.

After the accident — after I lost the baby — everything physical between us stopped.

I felt... empty. But I kept my mouth shut.

The doctor said the miscarriage had damaged my body, that I couldn't have kids anymore.

Sebastian didn't even flinch. He squeezed my hand and said, "You won't need to worry about that. My son is your son. We'll take care of you. We're a family — always."

I was moved. Thought he was noble, selfless.

He gave me a home. In return, I gave him everything.

I spent years cooking meals to help with his stomach issues, and tried every remedy under the sun to keep his son healthy.

I treated that boy like he was my own flesh and blood. Because I believed it didn't matter.

A child you love? That's your child.

Sebastian worked construction — always on some project, always gone.

Every month, he sent money back. Barely enough to keep the lights on.

The health remedies I made? Expensive. So I lived cheap. Peanut butter sandwiches, canned soup, beans — whatever stretched the longest. Same worn clothes for years.

It was a bare-bones life. And yeah, sometimes I got bitter about it.

But then I'd think about the boy — his son. I'd remind myself that we were a family, that the love I thought we had was real. I convinced myself it was all worth it.

I held onto this dream: growing old together, quiet mornings, grandkids running through the house.

I endured it for that dream.

And what did I get?

A divorce agreement.

Thirty years of hope, gone in a second.

It hit me like a punch to the gut. I couldn't breathe. Felt like the life had drained right out of me.

I wanted to cry. Wanted to scream at Sebastian, curse him for the lies, the betrayal.

But I didn't.

I just sat there, gasping like a fish on dry land, flailing, desperate for air.

My whole life — wasted.

And even now, knowing everything, the tears wouldn't come.