I’m 41, and my husband cheated on me—yet somehow, he’s putting the blame on me. When I first found out, it felt like my world was ripped apart. It was as if I’d been on solid ground, only to have the floor pulled out from under me. The pain was bad enough, but the aftermath turned out to be worse. Instead of remorse or even silence, he started to deflect everything, turning the tables on me as if I was the one who caused it all.

The irony? He claims that it’s my lack of attention that drove him to it, as if I haven’t been juggling a hundred things every day just to keep our life on track. I pour myself into my work, our home, our lives, and yes, sometimes I get exhausted. But I believed we were a team. That we’d support each other. I never thought he’d use my own sacrifices against me, twisting them into some twisted justification.

One night, as he was attempting yet another accusation, I found myself at a loss. All these years together, and he chooses this path? I realized he was never going to take responsibility; he’d rather paint me as the villain than own up to his betrayal. That was the turning point. I saw him for what he was, saw the excuses for what they were. It wasn’t about my supposed shortcomings. It was about his inability to respect or value what he had.

And now, here I am, trying to pick up the pieces, dealing with a strange mix of grief, anger, and relief. Relief because I know I deserve better than someone who would shift the blame rather than apologize. I know now that I’m not to blame for his choices, and as hard as it is, I’m ready to reclaim my life. Because, in the end, this is my life, and it’s too precious to let someone else’s mistakes define it.