When They Made Me the Villain to Justify Their Affair

Because rewriting my character was easier than owning their betrayal.

Let me tell you something about people who cheat and the ones who help them do it:
They don’t want the truth.
They want a story.

And in order to live inside that story without choking on their guilt, they need a villain.
That’s where I came in.

I was the wife.
The mother.
The one holding our home together while he unraveled.
But in their story?
I had to be the problem.
Too angry.
Too jealous.
Too boring.
Too emotional.
Too much.
Too little.
Too something.

Because if I were human—if I were loyal, good, patient, and hurting—then they were the bad guys.
And that’s a truth they couldn’t bear to carry.

So they rewrote me.

He told lies.
Little ones. Big ones.
He let her believe I was bitter. Controlling. Unloving.
That I didn’t care about him.
That I didn’t “understand” him.
That I pushed him away.

All so he could justify his betrayal without feeling the sting of what he was actually doing.

And she—the other woman—she swallowed every bit of it.
Not because she was stupid,
but because she needed to feel special.
She needed to feel like the chosen one.
Like the rescue, not the wreckage.

Because if she admitted I was a good woman,
a devoted wife,
a loyal mother,
then she’d have to confront the fact that she was the one sneaking around in the shadows
with a married man
with a family
and a future he was busy setting on fire.

That’s the thing about cheating:
It takes more than betrayal to pull it off.
It takes a story.
A convincing one.

And I?
I refused to play the role they wrote for me.

I knew who I was.
I showed up for my family even when I was shattered.
I stayed loyal when I had every reason to rage.
I protected my kids from the worst of it, even when I couldn’t protect myself.

I didn’t need to tear anyone down to justify my pain.
They did.

But that’s the difference between us.
I don’t rewrite people.
I don’t lie to feel better.
I don’t destroy families to build a fantasy.

She needed to believe I was unworthy.
Because otherwise, she’d have to face the truth:

That she wasn’t chosen.
She was just available.
She wasn’t the upgrade.
She was the escape route.
And she wasn’t loved.
She was used.

So no—I’m not the villain.
Not then.
Not now.
I was the target of their lies.
But I walked out with my integrity.
With my family.
With my head high.

Let them write whatever version of me they need to sleep at night.
I know my truth.
And I’m still fucking here.