I believed my wife gave up her career to focus on our kids.
But when our daughter said she saw her speaking on a stranger’s computer at school, I started to realize there was a whole side of her life she had never told me about.
I’m 35. Married to Elowen for 14 years.
We’ve got two kids—Callum’s nine, Marnie’s seven.
We used to both work full time. I’m in logistics. Elowen did accounting.
It wasn’t easy, but I thought we had it figured out.
Then everything shifted.
And then one day, Marnie came home and said, “Daddy, I saw Mommy on that man’s computer at school.”
Back when we were both working, life was hectic. Real hectic.
I’d be up first, packing lunches, dragging the kids out of bed. Elowen always needed extra time in the mornings.
She moved slow before coffee.
Most nights, dinner was rushed. Homework was a fight. We were exhausted.
Still, I showed up—late meetings or not. She was always talking about needing “balance.”
One night, she came into the room, wrapped in a towel, hair still wet. She looked pale.
Tired.
“I think I’m burned out,” she said. “Everything’s too much.”
I set my phone down. “What’s going on now?”
“Work.
Life. All of it.”
I sighed. “We all feel that way, El.”
She paused.
“I’ve been thinking about quitting.”
I blinked. “Your job?”
“Yeah. Just… being home.
With the kids. Maybe for a while.”
I didn’t answer right away. I knew better.
So I said, “Well.
The kids could really use that. Honestly, it might be the best thing—for them.”
She looked at me. “You think so?”
“I mean, daycare costs are insane.
And you’ve been saying you need a break.”
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I just thought you’d be upset.”
“Why would I be upset?” I said, smiling.
“You’d be doing what matters most.”
She smiled too. But it looked unsure.
Truth is, I was glad. I needed someone home to keep things in order.
It made sense. She was better at that kind of thing. And honestly?
I was tired of hearing her complain about spreadsheets and taxes.
After she quit, I made changes. I picked up more hours. Cut back on stuff—coffee, gym, poker nights.
I didn’t say much about it. Just did what I had to do.
I figured she’d notice.
I’d say things like, “Guess it’s leftovers again” or “Had to skip the guys’ night. Can’t really spend money like we used to.”
She’d nod, quiet.
Some nights, I’d get home and the house would actually be clean.
Dinner would be warm. The kids weren’t screaming. I’d smile and say, “See?
This is working.”
She’d say, “It’s just one day. Don’t get used to it.”
I’d laugh. “Hey, I’m just saying.
You’re good at this.”
She didn’t always like that. I could tell.
But I meant it. She was calmer.
The kids were happier. I wasn’t running around like a madman trying to juggle everything. This was better.
And when she talked about missing her career, I’d remind her, “You’re doing something more important now.”
She’d nod, but her mouth would tighten.
I let her talk.
I just didn’t feed into it. Because what would be the point? She’d already made her choice.
We were a team. At least that’s what I kept telling her.
Then came that weird afternoon.
Marnie threw her backpack down and said, “Daddy! I saw Mommy today!”
I looked up from the couch.
“What do you mean?”
“She was on some guy’s laptop. At school. He was sitting at a table and she was on the screen.”
I sat up.
“Are you sure it was Mommy?”
“Yeah! I said, ‘That’s my mommy!’ and he looked weird and closed it.”
“What was she doing?”
“Talking. Like, telling women stuff.
Like how to be strong.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t say anything. Just sat there.
Waiting.
Elowen came home a little after five.
She was humming—something upbeat. Carrying a shopping bag and two paper cups. She stopped when she saw me at the table.
“You’re early,” she said.
“I work here too,” I replied, more sharply than I meant to.
She set the cups down.
“I brought you something. Oat milk, right?”
I looked at the cup. “Thanks.”
There was a pause.
She waited.
I said, “Marnie saw you today.”
Her smile dropped. “What do you mean?”
“At school. On some man’s laptop.”
Elowen froze.
She didn’t even blink.
I leaned forward. “You want to explain that?”
She sighed and sank onto the couch. “It’s not a big deal.”
“You made videos.
Secret ones.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Months.”
“You didn’t think I should know?”
“You wouldn’t have supported it.”
I scoffed. “You didn’t even give me the chance.”
“I gave you years, Jake.”
We were both quiet. Then I asked, “Are you making money?”
She looked at me, tired.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing with it?”
“Using it. On me. Reclaiming myself.”
“You’re not helping the family?”
“I help the family every day.
Just not with that money.”
I laughed, bitter. “So you get to ‘reclaim yourself’ and I get what? More overtime?”
She didn’t answer.
I got up and grabbed my laptop from the counter. “Show me,” I said.
She opened it and typed. I watched as her face appeared onscreen—made up, glowing, confident.
She was talking about “emotional leeches.” About women “trapped by the illusion of love.” About “taking back control.”
I stared at the screen.
“I’m the leech,” I said quietly.
She looked away.
That night I lay in bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling. “I gave you years, Jake.”
She had. She was always the one cooking, arranging doctor visits, buying birthday gifts.
I never asked how she kept up. I just expected it. Still, she lied to me.
She made something behind my back.
And now it was big. Bigger than I knew.
In the morning, I tried to let it go. Not because I forgave her, I didn’t.
But I didn’t want to fight anymore, either.
Over breakfast I asked, “You doing anything today?”
She looked at me. “Filming.”
I nodded. “Need quiet?”
She looked surprised.
“That’d be helpful.”
I just said, “I’ll take the kids out after lunch.”
That week, I made an effort. I didn’t say anything when she ordered groceries delivered instead of shopping herself. I didn’t make nasty comments when she got her nails done or came home with new shoes.
I stopped asking what she was filming.
I stopped checking the videos.
Not because I didn’t care, but because I realized the more I pushed, the further she pulled. So I held back.
Some days it killed me. Like when I saw a spa appointment reminder pop up on the shared calendar.
Or when I came home and she was curled up with a book while laundry waited in piles.
But I kept quiet.
I reminded myself: this was her choice. And mine too, if I’m honest. I was the one who told her to slow down.
To rest. Maybe I didn’t mean this much rest. But I opened that door.
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