For more than a decade, our Sundays were sacred — not for church, but for pancakes and cartoons. So when my husband Brian suddenly insisted we start attending church every weekend, I thought it was just stress from work.
We’d never been religious. Not once in 12 years together had we gone to church. But he said he needed peace… a reset.
So we went.
Every Sunday, same row, same smiles. Brian seemed calm there — peaceful even. He chatted with people after service, helped carry donation bins, and slowly, I started to believe this new ritual was harmless.
Until one Sunday.
After the service, Brian told me to wait in the car while he went to the bathroom. Ten minutes passed. No answer to my calls.
When I went back inside, I saw him through a cracked garden window talking to a woman I didn’t recognize.
And I heard everything.
“I brought my family here so I could show you what you lost when you left me,” he told her. “I’ll do anything. We could still have a life together.”
My entire world collapsed.
The next week, I spoke to her. Her name was Rebecca — and she showed me years of messages from Brian. Letters, texts, even a recent photo of the church he’d sent her saying, “I know where you go now.”
He hadn’t found faith.
He had followed her.
That night, after Kiara went to bed, I looked at him and said quietly:
“My attorney is sending the divorce papers this week.”