Fortunately, I’d already separated from him months earlier, realizing the marriage couldn’t be saved. As partners we were finished.
My daughter and I remained safe. Perhaps that was divine mercy’s final protection.
When he finally received confirmation, he collapsed before me, tears flooding his face:
—Forgive me… I made a mistake… please don’t abandon me…
I looked on without pity. This man had shattered my trust, stolen our happiness. Now I was forced to bear the outcome of his reckless betrayal.
—The one who deserves your remorse is our daughter, not me.
I spoke quietly, then walked away.
From then onward, I stopped caring. I devoted every ounce of love to my daughter, who once again lived calmly, without fear.
He remained alive, but his existence became hollow, consumed by late repentance. The question, “Do you know what illness she carries?” marked the unmasking of truth. It also sealed the end of a marriage once thought strong.
I understood then that vengeance wasn’t required for betrayal, because fate itself delivers the cruelest punishment to the unfaithful.
