I ended a thirty-six-year marriage because I believed my husband, Troy, was hiding something I couldn’t forgive. I thought I’d made peace with that decision. I was wrong.
Troy and I had known each other since we were five—next-door neighbors, childhood friends, first scraped knees and endless summer evenings. We married at twenty, built a modest life with two kids, a house, and predictable routines. For decades, everything seemed honest, stable, ordinary.
Then, during our thirty-fifth year together, I noticed missing money in our joint account. Questions led to vague answers. Weeks later, hotel receipts in a desk drawer revealed trips to the same out-of-state hotel over and over.
When I confronted him, he refused to explain. Two weeks later, we divorced quietly. No other woman, no secret family—just silence and distance.
Two years after the divorce, Troy died suddenly. At his funeral, his father pulled me aside and revealed the truth. Troy had been undergoing specialized medical treatment out of state.
Continue reading on the next page…