I expected conflict when I decided to visit my ailing mother-in-law to give my exhausted husband a break. However, nothing prepared me for what I uncovered. She was not sick at all. And once she revealed the truth, my entire world collapsed. If Yakov wasn’t with her every night… then where was he?
Yakov and I had been married for six years. Although no marriage is flawless, I believed ours was strong. Despite work challenges, we always made sure to spend time together, shared many laughs, and lived comfortably in our cozy home. I trusted Yakov, who worked in the IT department of a medical company and often stayed late at work. There was never the slightest reason for suspicion.
When he told me his mother Lydia was unwell and needed help, I didn’t argue. I admired his devotion—Lydia had always meant everything to him. Every evening after dinner, he packed a bag, kissed me on the forehead, and said, “I’ll be back soon, dear.” He explained that he cooked for her, did her laundry, and made sure she took her medication. Occasionally, he returned home after midnight.
“I just want to make sure she’s alright,” he explained. “She raised me alone. I owe her so much.”
His fatigue tugged at my heart. His eyes always looked worn out, and last week, barely entering the house, he almost collapsed onto the couch.
“Give me an hour, darling,” he whispered. “Then I’ll go to Mom’s.”
Yet, he never got up. He fell asleep with his hand on his face, still wearing his shoes.
At that moment, my sympathy for him deepened. Poor man, he was simply exhausting himself.
I made a decision.
While he slept, I gathered groceries and essentials—fruits, soup, medicine, even flowers to brighten Lydia’s home. If Yakov couldn’t manage, I would take care of her myself. It was the least I could do for them both.
One chilly evening, I arrived at Lydia’s house. We hadn’t seen each other for a month or two, but Yakov insisted she was too unwell for visitors.
I knocked gently, careful not to disturb her or arrive at an inconvenient time. The door opened, and instead of a pale, weary woman, I saw Lydia—dressed in black, with perfectly styled hair, flawless makeup, and freshly polished burgundy nails.
I stood there holding the bag of groceries, feeling utterly foolish.
Her smile faded into surprise, then worry.
“Karina? Oh my God! What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I blinked.
“I… just brought you something. Yakov said you’re very ill.”
All color drained from Lydia’s face.
“Ill?” she gasped. “Sweetheart, I haven’t seen Yakov in three months. What’s going on?”
I nearly dropped the bag.
“Three months?”
She nodded slowly, eyes wide.
“The last time he came here was probably early January. He said he was swamped at work. I thought he was just overwhelmed with tasks.”
It felt as if the ground shifted beneath me.
Yakov had assured me he visited her every night, cared for her, helped her get out of bed—I even packed food for him sometimes. He kissed me goodbye, claiming he was helping his mother.
“You’re not sick at all, Lydia?”
“No! Why would I be? I go to Pilates twice a week!”
I felt nauseous.
I thanked her absentmindedly, barely hearing her concerned questions, and drove home. For a long while, I sat in the car outside, staring at the soft light filtering through the curtains. The man inside—the husband I loved—had just been exposed as the biggest and most cunning liar in our marriage.
But why?
Where was he going every night?
And what was so important that he needed to pretend his mother was ill for months?
That night, I didn’t confront him. I waited.
The next evening, Yakov showered, changed clothes, grabbed his backpack, and kissed me.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours, darling. Call if you need anything.”
I nodded, fighting the tremor in my hands.
As soon as he left, I followed him, maintaining a distance of three cars behind. My heart pounded so loudly, I thought he might hear it.
He didn’t go to his mother’s house.
Instead, he drove to a quiet suburb on the opposite side of town, a place I didn’t recognize. I parked at a distance and waited, biting my lip until it bled.
Then, I saw her.
A woman around thirty, with loose dark hair, wearing pajamas, came to the door as if expecting him. She opened it before he even knocked, embraced him, and kissed him—not briefly or modestly—but for a long, intimate moment.
The door shut behind him.
I cannot say how long I sat in the car.
I don’t remember how I got home.
But I do remember the crushing weight of betrayal pressing down on my chest like a stone.
I didn’t scream.
And I still haven’t cried.
I began collecting evidence. I tracked his schedule, took pictures, and observed him for several days. It turned out he had been seeing Alisa for nearly a year. She worked at one of his company’s branches, was divorced, and had a child. He helped her pay rent and buy groceries—with our money.
To her, he said he was divorced.
To me, he claimed he was caring for his sick mother.
He mixed just enough truth into his lies to make them believable.
But he didn’t expect me to visit Lydia.
A few days later, we had a conversation.
I spread the photos out on the kitchen table like evidence in a courtroom. Yakov came in, saw them, and froze.
“I… I can explain everything, Karina…” he said.
“No,” I replied coldly. “You can start packing.”
He began telling me he felt unappreciated, that the affair helped him escape the monotony of marriage. He claimed he didn’t love her, that “it just happened.” He swore that he still loved me.
Yet, I no longer wanted to listen.
His betrayal was not just against me.
He lied to the woman he pledged honesty to and used his own mother as a cover.
This was no accident.
It was a choice.
“He blended just enough truth with deception to disguise his infidelity.”
Months passed, and I moved into a new apartment. Surprisingly, my relationship with Lydia grew closer, and now we communicate more often. She admitted to speaking with Yakov and feeling ashamed that he used her as a shield.
Yakov called, begging for forgiveness, breaking down in tears.
But I already shed tears for both of us.
I lost more than a husband—
I lost the illusion of the man I believed him to be.
Now, I have found someone else.
Myself.
Strong.
Intelligent.
And far more discerning about who I allow into my life.
Key Insight: Trust can be shattered by deception, but from the ruins of betrayal, personal strength and clarity can emerge.
In conclusion, discovering the truth behind my husband’s nightly absences revealed painful lies that dramatically altered my life. Yet, this painful experience also led me to rediscover my own resilience and self-worth. It reminded me that while deception can break bonds, it can also open the door to personal growth and a more discerning approach to relationships.