A Few Hours Before My Son’s Wedding, I Walked into the Living Room and Witnessed a Scene That Shattered Our 25-Year Marriage in an Instant…

The wedding was supposed to start in three hours. I was in my room, finishing up my hair, when I realized I had forgotten the bouquet in the fridge downstairs. I quietly went down, not wanting to disturb the final preparations.

I opened the living room door — and froze.

My husband was kissing my son’s bride. Not in a friendly or fatherly way. He kissed her with such passion that it made me physically nauseous. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. His hand was on her waist, pulling her closer.

This was not a mistake. Not confusion. Not an accident. It was a deliberate, conscious betrayal.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. I just stood in the doorway, watching everything I had believed in for twenty-five years come crashing down.

They heard my step and abruptly pulled away from each other. The bride turned pale. My husband looked at me with the expression of a caught thief.

I turned and left. Went up to my room, closed the door. Sat on the edge of the bed and tried to breathe. My hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t fasten the zipper on my dress.

A few minutes later, my husband knocked on the door. He entered without an invitation.

— It’s not what you think, — he began.

I looked at him and laughed. Hysterically, bitterly.

— Not what? I saw you kissing our son’s bride three hours before his wedding. What exactly did I misunderstand?

He was silent. Searching for words that didn’t exist.

— How long? — I asked quietly.

The silence lasted an eternity.

— Six months, — he finally said.

Six months. While we were planning the wedding, choosing the venue, ordering flowers, trying on suits — he was sleeping with our son’s bride. While I was happy that my son had finally found love, his father was stealing that love from him.

— Does our son know?

— No. She wants to break off the engagement but can’t find a way. She’s afraid to hurt him.

I stood up. Came close to him.

— And you? You weren’t afraid to hurt him? Afraid to destroy his life? His trust? Our family?

He lowered his eyes.

— I didn’t plan it. It just… happened.

— Nothing just happens. You made a choice. Every day. For six months.

I picked up the phone. Called my son. He was at a friend’s, getting ready to head to the venue.

— Come home. Urgently. Alone.

He arrived twenty minutes later. Cheerful, excited, in his wedding suit. Saw my face — and froze.

— Mom, what happened?

I looked at my husband. Gave him one last chance to tell the truth himself. He remained silent, like a coward.

— Your father cheated on me with your fiancée. For six months. I caught them this morning.

My son’s face turned pale. He looked at his father with such an expression that I turned away.

— Is it true?

My husband nodded.

My son didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just turned around and left. Got in his car and drove away. Calling him was pointless — he didn’t answer.

The wedding, of course, didn’t happen. Guests received messages of cancellation an hour before the ceremony. No explanations. Just “the wedding is canceled for personal reasons.”

I filed for divorce the next day. My husband tried to make excuses, said it was a temporary lapse, that he loved me, that he would fix everything. But I saw his face when he kissed her. There was no regret. Only desire.

My son didn’t talk to his father for three months. Then he started answering calls, but coldly, formally. The relationship couldn’t be rebuilt. Trust, once broken, cannot be glued back together.

The bride disappeared from our lives. Moved to another city, changed her phone number. I heard that my husband tried to find her, wrote to her. She didn’t respond. Apparently, he realized that what seemed like love was just a forbidden infatuation, losing its appeal after exposure.

Two years have passed. I live alone, work, meet friends. My son visits me every week. He rarely sees his father, only when necessary. My ex-husband lives alone, trying to rebuild his relationship with his son. Without success.

Sometimes I think: if I hadn’t gone down for the bouquet at that moment, the wedding would have taken place. My son would have married a woman who slept with his father. They would have lived a lie, and I would have continued to believe in our marriage.

Maybe it’s better to know the truth, even if it destroys everything? Or are there truths that are better left undiscovered?

I chose the truth. And paid for it with the family I knew for twenty-five years. But at least now I live without illusions.

Would you have stopped your son’s wedding if you found out such a thing? Or would you have remained silent to not destroy his happiness, hoping everything would somehow work out on its own?

*****************

The wedding was supposed to start in three hours. I went downstairs to get the bouquet I had forgotten in the refrigerator and quietly opened the living room door. What I saw made my heart stop. My husband was kissing someone with a passion that made me feel physically sick. That person’s arms were wrapped around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair. They heard my step and pulled away from each other abruptly. When I saw who it was, my legs gave out. It was…
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