After My Son Chose His Mistress Over Me

On the thirtieth anniversary of our marriage, my husband's longtime infatuation finally came to an end with her divorce.

Riley Owens, the woman he'd secretly admired, declared her intention to live life to the fullest, setting off on a solo cross-country road trip in her RV. Steven couldn't bear the thought of her dining alone beneath the stars, so he chose to divorce me and follow her.

Our son, Layne, whom I had nurtured for over two decades, saw this as progressive: "Go ahead, Dad. You only get one chance at life; don't leave any regrets. I'm right behind you."

"And what about me?" I interjected.

"Men are just boys who never grow up—don't make a fuss," Layne shot back, his gaze subtly contemptuous. "If I were Dad, I'd choose Aunt Riley too."

That's when I felt my heart turn to ice.

Everyone has the right to chase their dreams, and so do I.

This family is something I no longer want!

---

Steven's muse finally divorced, and upon hearing the news, he burst into tears of pure joy.

I observed him from the couch as he hastily retrieved our marriage certificate from deep within a cabinet. He donned his reading glasses, his hands shaking as he typed a query on his phone: "How to file for a divorce."

The phone's volume was cranked up, the sounds from the video resounding throughout the house. Steven stumbled over the modern terminology but diligently noted every word. He replied to Riley's message on WhatsApp: "Don't worry, Riley. No matter where you go, I'll be with you."

His tender words cut through the facade of our decades-long marriage. Despite the turbulence, I placed his preferred coffee on the desk, nervously adjusting my clothes.

"Can we not divorce?" I pleaded quietly.

"No. I’ve missed out on Riley for too many years; I can’t let that happen again."

Gazing at his still-handsome face, my heart ached.

"And what about me? The thirty years we've supported each other, the thirty years I've spent managing the household and raising our child—what do they mean?"

With a voice full of rage, I unleashed all the grief and pain I'd bottled up over the years. Steven frowned, glanced at me, then turned back to his desk, refusing to say another word.

Near a breakdown, I shook him repeatedly, desperate for an explanation. But he sat in silence, leaving me feeling like a madwoman.

Yet I recall—I wasn’t always like this. Before marriage, everyone called me their carefree friend.