I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who stays.

When you hear about someone who stays with their cheating husband, it’s easy to judge. I probably would’ve too, once. Before it happened to me.

Before I knew what it felt like to be betrayed, humiliated, stalked, and completely undone by someone I never even invited into my life.

Because the thing is – yes, my husband had an affair. But it wasn’t him who broke me. It was her.

She knew he was married. She knew we had children. And once I found out what they had been doing behind my back, she made it her mission to make sure I suffered.

It started like you’d expect. My husband began acting distant. He stayed out later than usual, was glued to his phone and started taking more showers. All the textbook signs. I had that awful, sinking feeling in my gut that something wasn’t right.

I asked him outright and he denied it, said I was imagining things, that he was stressed with work, that I was being paranoid.

But I wasn’t.

'I remember standing in the laundry, holding one of his shirts, and just shaking,' writes our pseudonymous author (stock image posed by model)

‘I remember standing in the laundry, holding one of his shirts, and just shaking,’ writes our pseudonymous author (stock image posed by model)

Eventually, I found the proof. Messages, photos, little details that confirmed everything I had suspected. They had been having an affair. It wasn’t just a one-off; it had been going on for months.

I was devastated.

I remember standing in the laundry, holding one of his shirts, and just shaking. Not crying. Not yet. Just shaking.

When I confronted him, he broke down. Swore it was over. Told me he didn’t love her, that it had been a mistake.

And then came the part I still struggle to explain: I didn’t leave him.

Not because I forgave him, not because I believed him, but because I was in complete survival mode. We had two young kids and a mortgage. I couldn’t think straight. I just needed to get through the next minute, the next day.

A week later, it started.

At first, I didn’t know what to make of it.

I got a message from an unknown number with a screenshot of a conversation between her and my husband. No words. Just the image.

I wish I could unsee the photos and videos my husband's mistress sent to me (stock image)

I wish I could unsee the photos and videos my husband’s mistress sent to me (stock image)

Then came more – photos of them together, including ones that were clearly taken inside a hotel room. Videos I wish I could unsee. Comments like, ‘He never looked at you like this.’

It was like she wanted to rub salt into every open wound. Like she was trying to humiliate me in the most personal, cruel way she could.

I blocked the number, of course, but she didn’t stop.

She found me on social media. Created fake accounts. Emailed me from burner email addresses. Even sent messages pretending to be someone from my local school mums group.

Sometimes the messages were direct. Other times they were more subtle, designed to make me doubt myself – things like, ‘Love your new couch. Shame you didn’t vacuum before you took that photo.’

She was relentless and I was spinning.

I started feeling paranoid all the time. Was she watching me? Following me? Had she really been in my house, like she claimed?

I went to the police. They took it seriously, to their credit. I showed them the messages and the threats. They helped me apply for a restraining order. I was told she would be formally warned to stop all contact.

For a while, it helped. Then the silence broke.

A new number. A new message. ‘You thought this was over?’

I can’t fully explain what it’s like to live in that kind of fear.

I’d lie awake at night jumping at every noise. I stopped going out. I kept my children close. I was embarrassed to tell anyone, like I’d somehow caused this, that by keeping our marriage together I had made it worse.

People said I should leave, that I was crazy for staying, but I couldn’t think that far ahead. I was holding everything together with scraps.

I didn’t even recognise myself anymore.

Eventually, after about 18 months, I did leave. Not because I’d suddenly found my strength, but because the weight of it all – the affair, the stalking, the constant fear – finally tipped me over the edge.

And still, even after we separated, I wasn’t free of her.

She sent a message congratulating me. ‘Told you he wouldn’t stay.’

I blocked her again. Reported it. But nothing came of it. Unless she broke the law in some technical way, there wasn’t much more the police could do.

She kept coming at me for a long time and I really thought I’d never be free of her.

It’s been years now. I’ve changed jobs, moved house, even changed my name on social media. I haven’t heard from her in a long time. But the fear lingers.

I still flinch when a message comes through from a number I don’t recognise. I still worry when I see a car parked near my house for too long. I don’t know if that ever really goes away.

What happened wasn’t just cheating. It was psychological abuse. And the worst part is that there isn’t a neat way to talk about it. People understand heartbreak. But they don’t always understand what it’s like to be targeted.

To be deliberately tormented by someone who wanted to make sure you never healed.

That’s why I’m telling this now. Because maybe someone out there is going through something similar and feels like no one would believe them. Or they are ashamed. Or stuck.

You’re not crazy. You’re not weak.

I’m still here. Still standing. Still rebuilding.

Some days I feel strong; some days I don’t. But every day that passes without a message from her is a day I claim back as mine. And that’s something.

  •  As told to Rebel Wylie. Elysia Kailey Thorne is a pseudonym. 

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