u/Accountability404

Oddly enough, you’ve always accused me of wanting to make you a cuck.

Sorry my favorite corn category rubbed you the wrong way.

Your category isn’t exactly becoming either.

But I digress.

The funny part is, I never wanted to live that fantasy in real life.

You did.

You went looking for random people on apps…specifically couples, and somehow convinced yourself it was safe because they “looked clean” or had professional careers.

Because apparently STIs respect business casual.

But sure. Go off, bull.

You let strangers record you during these little escapades. Shame on you.

A bold choice when you work in a world where vulnerability to coercion isn’t exactly considered a charming personality quirk.

Guideline D might want in on the next throuple.

But, again, I digress.

And somehow I was supposed to be impressed by the recklessness of it all.

And come chase you and beg you to come home because now you were desired by strangers?

I wasn’t impressed.

Definitely wasn’t chasing community Twinkie.

What gets me is that I was supposedly the dangerous one because I liked a certain fantasy.

Meanwhile, you were out here actually living yours with strangers and treating basic risk assessment like an optional add-on.

Once you opened that can of worms, you couldn’t seem to close it.

Or, more accurately, opened your worm.

One couple became another encounter. Another app. Another risk. Another story I eventually had to hear about.

Apparently even catching an STI wasn’t enough to make you reconsider whether maybe…just maybe…the fantasy had stopped being sexy and started becoming stupid.

At some point, how many diseases have to enter the group chat before everyone admits the plot has been lost?

But somehow…

**I’m the scandal.**

Because after everything was already broken, I let a man devour me in the G-Wagon.

And suddenly we have standards.

The outrage.

The moral crisis.

Years of accusing me of secretly wanting to turn you into a cuck, only for you to spend your own time seeking out couples, performing for strangers, being recorded, and risking your health and potentially much more for the experience.

Meanwhile, my fantasy stayed exactly where it started…

A fantasy.

That’s the part that makes me laugh.

You spent years being offended by what you imagined I wanted while becoming far more invested in the lifestyle than I ever was.

You became the cuck you always thought I wanted.

And before anybody clutches their pearls, save it.

I’m not ashamed of what turns me on.

I’m also not pretending fantasy and recklessness are the same thing.

Turns out, I never needed to make you anything.

You handled that part yourself.

I’ll do you one last solid favor.

I’ll decline that source interview.

You’re welcome.

From the bottom of my heart, you can kiss the darkest part of my ass. 😘

I used to think marrying for money sounded shallow.

Life has humbled me 😂

After more than a decade, these were the words you gave me.

“I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”
“You are the bane of my existence.”
“Die, bitch.”
“Whore.”
“Slut.”
“Fat ass.”

“Our kids would be better off without you.”
“The only thing you’re good for is sex.”
“I should’ve never had kids with you.”
“You deserved what I did to you. I wish it was worse.”

“Your whole family is weird. That’s why you were molested.”
“I hope your dad dies.”

And then…

“I’m so sorry.”
“I didn’t mean those things.”
“You’re doing a great job raising our kids.”
“I wish I could be more like you.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with my brain.”
“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

Spitting in my face.
Throwing a drink in my face.

Showing me videos of you being a “bull” with random couples. Unprotected.

Contracting gonorrhea overseas on a work trip and telling the doctor it came from a threesome with your wife. 🥴

They say who someone is in the end is who they were all along.

I don’t think it’s that simple.
Because for the first decade, your anger didn’t look like this.

It was quieter.
It looked like silence.
Days of being shut out.
Passive-aggressive comments.
Coldness I could feel but couldn’t always name.

Affection disappearing when you were angry.

Maybe the anger wasn’t new.
Maybe eventually it just stopped whispering.

And for a long time, I believed your anger was evidence about me.

Maybe I really was unbearable.
Maybe I was difficult to love.
Maybe I was a bad mother.

Maybe there was something so fundamentally wrong with me that your words had to be true.

So I picked myself apart.
Every insult became evidence.
Every cruel word became another thing I needed to fix.

And the apologies made it harder.
Because in between the hatred, there was softness.

Remorse.
Admiration.
Promises.

You could tell me our children would be better off without me, then tell me I was doing an amazing job raising them.

You could call me stupid, then tell me you wished you could be more like me.

You could reduce me to sex, then tell me you were sorry.

You could give me an STI and later promise to spend the rest of your life making it up to me.

You could spit in my face, tell me it was my fault, and still say you were sorry.

You could weaponize the worst things that ever happened to me, wish death on someone I loved, and then blame it on ADHD and brain damage.

That contradiction kept me stuck for a long time.

Because which version was real?
The one who hated me?
Or the one who was sorry?

Lately, I’ve realized maybe that was the wrong question.

I used to wonder what you had to feel inside to say those things.

How much anger has to live in someone before another person’s childhood trauma becomes ammunition?

How much resentment does it take to look at the mother of your children and tell her they would be better off without her?

How much contempt does it take to say you’d walk past the mother of your children being killed?

How much pain, shame, resentment, or chaos has to exist inside someone before cruelty starts feeling like power?

I don’t know.
Maybe I never will.
And I don’t need to know anymore.

Because I spent years treating your ugliest words like a mirror.

They weren’t.

They were a window.
A window into anger I could never fix for you.
A window into resentment I could never love out of you.

A window into something happening inside of you that was there long before me.

Maybe the porn addiction was bigger than anything my love could compete with.

Maybe the mother wound was deeper than I ever understood.

Maybe the abandonment wound shaped more of you than I realized.

Maybe the silent treatments were emotions you never learned how to express.

Maybe the passive aggression was resentment without the vocabulary.

Maybe, eventually, you just started saying out loud what had been living quietly between us for years.

And that realization hurts differently.

Because after more than a decade of loving you, building a family with you, defending you, forgiving you, and believing there was still something underneath all that silence worth reaching for…

I finally had to stop standing in the fire trying to understand why you kept lighting matches.

-V

I wish I could reset my brain to the moment in time when memories of us were all good ones.

I’ve let go of chasing you.

I’ve let go of hoping for the apology I wanted.

I’ve let go of hoping our marriage could ever be what it once was.

But there are hopes I still can’t seem to bury.

I hope for a new marriage, one built on friendship instead of fear, connection instead of distance.

I hope for our marriage to be a two-handed circle, where we both reach, we both hold, and we both stay.

I hope we become a family again, or at the very least, genuine friends.

I hope trust can be rebuilt.

I hope I know what it feels like to be loved by you again.

I hope you see me for who I am, instead of who I was while I was hurting.

I hope our children grow up watching us choose kindness over resentment.

I hope one day this is all water under the bridge, just another chapter we survived.

I hope we laugh about the stupid things we did and said during this time in our lives.

I hope we feel like home to each other once more.

I hope we live out the vows fully.

I hope we grow old together, just like we planned.

I hope one day you find it in your heart to see me as human. Someone who made mistakes, just as you have.

I hope one day you believe me when I say I’m willing to put in the work.

And if I’m honest…

A small part of me hopes you find these posts.

Not because I expect them to change your mind, but because I don’t think I could ever say these things to you face-to-face.

The problem with hope is that it’s a hard thing to kill.

\-V

Everything that’s happened to me personally, and to us as husband and wife, changed me. It broke something in me for a while. But if it weren’t for the heartbreak, the betrayal, and the resentment, I never would’ve moved. I never would’ve been forced into a life that ultimately led me toward my purpose.

Somewhere along the way, I got lost in the routine of motherhood and the loneliness that came with your constant travel. I was depressed and didn’t even realize it.

There are so many things I would do differently if I could. Words I’d take back. Moments I’d relive with more patience and more love. If I could undo the hurt I caused you, maybe our story would have ended differently.

I’ve always been someone who forgives. I try to understand people. I move through hurt because holding onto it feels heavier than letting it go. I know you’re different, and that’s okay.

The truth is, I think we could have found our way back to each other if there had ever been room for grace…if you had been able to see me in my best moments instead of keeping me forever tied to my worst ones.

But I can’t make someone forgive me.

I can’t make you separate my mistakes from my egg donor. I can’t erase the things I’ve said or done. I can’t change the way you see me.

I miss our family. I miss having you in my everyday life. The kids miss you, too.

I’m not better than you, and you’re not better than me. I think marriage only survives when two people wake up every day and choose forgiveness. Not because the hurt disappears, but because love becomes more important than keeping score.

I still love you.

Not because of what you’ve done for me, or what you could do for me.

I love you because you’re you.

\-V

If I had one wish, it would be that you’d come back to yourself.

That you’d remember who you truly are.

That you’d reach the little boy inside you and remind him of the man he once wanted to become.

A man not controlled by his flesh, a man not consumed by his desires, and not distracted by everything pulling him away from what really matters.

A man led by his heart.
A man led by love.

A man whose greatest goal was to give his children the life he never had.

A man who loved the family he created above all else.

Not a perfect man, but a man with integrity. A man unwilling to sacrifice who he is, yet humble enough not to be deceived by the things that pull us away from ourselves.

I hope you know the little boy inside of you needed a hug.

He needed his mom.
He needed his dad.
He needed to know where he came from.
He needed to know he was loved.
He needed to know he was wanted, that he mattered.

The man he has become needs those things too.

He needs to know he is not the sum of his worst mistakes.

That he is not forever chained to his impulses or his failures. That beneath all of if, he is still the person he was always capable of becoming.

If I had one wish, it would be for that man to finally hug the little boy inside of him.

To tell him he’s loved.
To tell him he’s wanted, that he matters.
And most of all, to tell him to lead his family with love.

I hope you find yourself again.