I clicked over to his emails and typed “Nadia” into the search bar. Hundreds of emails. Some just forwarding articles or videos. Others long, winding paragraphs about feelings, about regret, about dreams they shared “when things were simpler.”
It didn’t sound like procurement.
I clicked one with the subject line: “Still thinking about your necklace in Santorini.”
And that was it. I broke down.
I stared at the screen, feeling like a fool. My husband—Sayed, the man who once told me I was “his lighthouse”—had been sending thousands to another woman. Possibly even paying for her education. And this wasn’t some quick fling. They had memories. Inside jokes. Photos. There was a screenshot of a plane ticket. He’d flown to Montreal for “a conference” last October. But in his inbox, there was a selfie of them at a café.
She was younger. Maybe mid-twenties. Mixed-race, with dyed pink curls and gold hoop earrings. She looked right at the camera. He was kissing her cheek.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
Back at the hospital, he was awake, sipping juice and watching the news like nothing had happened.
I didn’t say anything right away. I waited. Observed. He acted completely normal. Cracked jokes with the nurses. Texted someone when he thought I wasn’t looking.
That night, after we got home, I sat him down at the kitchen table.
“Who’s Nadia?” I asked quietly.
He looked up from his phone. “What?”
“Don’t pretend. I found the emails. The transfers. Everything.”
His face went blank. Just a cold, flat silence. Then he stood up and said, “It’s not what you think.”
That cliché. The one line that means it’s exactly what you think.
Turns out, Nadia was the daughter of an old family friend—at least that’s what he claimed. Her mother passed away, her father disappeared, and she was “like a niece” to him. He’d been supporting her, helping her finish school.
“And the photos? The kiss on the cheek? The ‘Santorini necklace’?” I fired back.
He stammered. Said he got “emotionally confused.” That he felt sorry for her. That things “got blurred.”
I asked him straight-up: “Did you sleep with her?”
He hesitated for three seconds too long.
I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. I just stood up, grabbed my keys, and left.
I drove around for hours. Ended up parked in front of my cousin Rukhsana’s place. She opened the door in her pajamas, took one look at my face, and said, “Stay as long as you want.”
The next morning, I got a message from Sayed:
“Please don’t tell anyone about this. Let’s talk. I’ll cut her off. I made a mistake.”
That was the moment something flipped in me.
This wasn’t just about infidelity. It was about lies. Years of slowly treating me like a bystander in my own life. Watching me clip coupons while he sent thousands to a girl who wore Chanel perfume and posted yoga selfies.
I stayed at Rukhsana’s for two weeks. During that time, I found out more. I looked up Nadia on social media. She had tagged him once in a photo from 2021, but under a different name: “Shawn.”
My husband had created an entire second identity.
That blew everything open.
I called a lawyer. Quietly, without telling him. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to divorce him, but I wanted to know my options. I found out our house was still jointly owned, but he’d taken a second loan against it—without telling me—to “keep the business afloat.”
I went home that night, walked in calmly, and said: “I want your full financials. All of them. Now.”
He was angry at first. Defensive. But when he saw I wasn’t backing down, something changed. He got quiet. Real quiet. Then he walked into the study and came back with a box of papers.
There it was:
– Business revenue was down 60%.
– Credit cards maxed out.
– Nadia wasn’t just a fling—he’d promised to help her launch a “lifestyle brand.”
– And worst of all: he’d used my social insurance number to apply for one of the loans.
That was it.
I filed for divorce.
