My Husband Of 44 Years Saved His Mistress As ‘Golf Pro Dave’ In His Phone. He Forgot That I Paid For Our Entire House With My Inheritance. Now He Is Homeless And His Mistress Already Dumped Him. Am I The Bad Person Here?
I found credit card statements with charges from restaurants I’d never heard of. I found a receipt from a jewelry store dated 2 months ago, but I hadn’t received any jewelry. I found a hotel reservation for a weekend he told me was a work conference in Hartford.
Each discovery landed like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. But I didn’t confront him. Not yet. I needed to understand the full picture before I said a word.
On Wednesday, I called my sister. Doris had been through a divorce 20 years ago, back when people still whispered about it at church. She’d survived, she’d rebuilt, and she’d never once told me she was sorry for leaving.
“I need a lawyer,”
I said.
“Someone good.”
She didn’t ask why. She just gave me a name: Patricia Vance. Family Law. 30 years of experience. Office downtown.
I made an appointment for Friday. The night before my meeting with Patricia, Richard brought home flowers. Yellow roses, my favorite. He set them on the counter with a smile that used to make my heart flutter.
“Just because,”
he said.
I put them in water and thanked him. I cooked his favorite dinner. I laughed at his jokes about the news anchor’s hairpiece. And when he kissed me goodnight, I kissed him back.
But when he fell asleep, I lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe.
Patricia’s office was on the third floor of a brick building near the courthouse. She was a small woman with sharp eyes and a firm handshake. The kind of person who didn’t waste words.
“Tell me everything,”
she said. So I did.
The phone. The messages. The townhouse. The receipts. I showed her the copies I’d made, the dates I’d written down. The timeline I’d pieced together like a puzzle I never wanted to solve.
When I finished, she leaned back in her chair.
“You’ve been thorough.” “I’ve had time to think.”
She nodded.
“What do you want, Eleanor?”
The question caught me off guard. No one had asked me what I wanted in years. Not Richard, not my children, not even myself.
“I want the house,”
I said finally.
“I want to know I’m protected. And I want him to understand that I’m not a fool.”
Patricia smiled just slightly.
“We can do that.”
We spent 2 hours going over options. Asset division, retirement accounts, the house which was in both our names but had been paid off with money I’d inherited from my mother. She explained what would happen if he contested, what would happen if he didn’t. She talked about mediation and litigation and settlement agreements.
By the time I left, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks. Not happiness. Not relief. Just clarity. The fog had lifted, and I could finally see the path ahead.
That weekend, I planted new flowers in the garden. Marigolds and zinnias, bright bursts of orange and pink against the green. Richard was in the den watching golf, the volume turned up too loud.
“You’re spending a lot of time out there,”
he said when I came inside.
“It’s good for me,”
I replied.
“The fresh air.”
He went back to his game. I went back to my planning. On Tuesday, I told him I was visiting my sister for a few days. He barely looked up from his coffee.
“Tell Doris I said hello,”
he said.
I didn’t correct him. I didn’t say that Doris was in Florida visiting her grandchildren. I just packed a small bag and drove to a hotel near Patricia’s office. Where I spent 3 days signing papers, organizing documents, and preparing for a conversation I’d been rehearsing in my head for 2 weeks.
When I came home, he was sitting at the kitchen table with his phone in his hand. His face was pale.
“Where were you, really?”
he asked.
I set my bag down slowly.
“I told you, visiting Doris.”
“Doris is in Florida. I called her.”
I didn’t flinch.
“Then I suppose you already know the answer.”
He stood up, his chair scraping against the tile.
“Eleanor, what’s going on?”
I looked at him. Really looked at the man I’d shared a bed with for 44 years. The man I’d raised children with. The man I’d trusted. And I felt nothing. Not anger, not sadness. Just emptiness where love used to live.
“I know about Diane,”
I said.
The color drained from his face. His mouth opened, but no words came.
“I’ve known for weeks,”
I continued.
“I’ve seen the messages. I’ve been to her house. I’ve talked to a lawyer.”
“Eleanor, please, just let me explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain. You made a choice. Now I’m making mine.”
He sank back into his chair, his hands trembling.
“It didn’t mean anything. She was just… I don’t know. She made me feel young again.”
