“Yes, That’s Who I Am”: He Had Other Women, But Never Planned to Leave His Family.

All my friends told me I was crazy. And deep down… I knew they were right. But even knowing that, I couldn’t change anything. My feelings for my husband had faded long ago. They vanished between loads of laundry, silent dinners, sleepless nights, and endless workdays. I used to rush home, carried by love. Now, I walked in out of habit, drained, eyes hollow. At forty, I felt fifty—and it wasn’t an exaggeration, it was just the truth.

The only person who truly understood me was… my mother-in-law, Ana Martínez. A strong-willed woman, but with a huge heart. She had come to Madrid from her small town because there was no treatment for her illness back home. She stayed with us and helped care for my seven-year-old daughter, Lucía. She couldn’t be alone, and I spent most of my time working.

And my husband… Pablo. It was like the “demon of desire” had taken hold of him. He came home late—sometimes at dawn—smelling of sweet perfume he claimed was “a new men’s cologne,” though everyone in the neighborhood knew he had… several “friends.”

He mixed up names when talking to me. One day I was Laura, then Sara, then Elena. And he always wore that arrogant smile, as if saying, “Yes, that’s who I am. So what?” He didn’t even try to hide it. In fact, he seemed proud of it.

Everything continued like that until one night, around 3 a.m., the phone rang, loud and sharp. One of his “girlfriends” was yelling on the other end: “Where is he? Why isn’t he answering?” What hurt me the most wasn’t the call—it was the way that woman had invaded my home, my night, my life.

When Pablo finally came home at sunrise, looking hungover and indifferent, I lost it. I threw his things into the hallway with such fury that even the cat hid under the couch. He mumbled:

—Yes, I’m seeing someone… but I’m not going to abandon my family. We have a daughter. My mom is sick. We’re a family!

That’s when Ana, who had heard everything from her room, raised her voice for the first time in years:

—If you want to be with someone else, then leave. Find somewhere else to stay. I’m almost done with my treatment. Lucía has exams this week. Enough is enough. We all deserve a decent life.

I tried to argue, to say it was my house, my decision. But Ana stood firm:

—I won’t interfere in your choices. But as long as I live here, I won’t let this place turn into a brothel. Let him pack his things. I’ll be gone in a few days. After that, you do what you want.

Under his mother’s sharp gaze, Pablo grumbled, grabbed his shirts and pants, and stuffed them into a gym bag. It was humiliating—for him. And rightfully so.

When he left, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: silence. Real silence. No shouting, no late-night calls, no demands for dinner. Ana would visit on Sundays, bringing muffins for Lucía and gossip from the neighborhood. And I—without even realizing it—started waking up without that tight knot in my throat. I even began to see myself differently in the mirror.

Two months later, as Ana finished her treatment and was packing to return to her hometown, Pablo showed up at the door. With flowers. With guilt on his face. And with words that froze my blood:

—Forgive me. She kicked me out. I understand everything now. Give me another chance. Can we start over?

Ana, already in her coat and holding her suitcase, looked me in the eyes:

—It’s your decision. I won’t interfere. But maybe it’s time to think about yourself—not about who you feel sorry for.

Then, taking Lucía by the hand, she walked into the kitchen.

I stood in the hallway, staring at the man who had once been my family… and who now was just a stranger. And I knew I had a decision to make. One that, at last, only depended on me.