I’m a mistress of a married man. It took me a long time to get his attention. I watched him. I even grew and dyed my hair to look like his wife. After a couple of years, the man gave up, left his family and ran around me like a dog. He’d go to great lengths for me. And then, completely out of the blue, I got bored.

Not with him exactly, but with the whole setup. The thrill I’d chased, the power I thought I wanted—it all started to feel… empty. I had spent so long chasing what wasn’t mine that when I finally had it, I didn’t know what to do with it.

His name was Marcus. We met at work, and from the moment I saw him, something inside me snapped. He wasn’t the best-looking man or even the most charming, but he had a calm presence, and I noticed how his eyes lit up when he talked about his kids. I hated that.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to be the type who believed in love stories and good karma. But life doesn’t always play fair. I had been dumped, cheated on, overlooked. Somewhere along the way, I stopped rooting for the good guys and became someone who played the game instead.

So I watched Marcus. I saw how he loved his wife, the little notes he’d leave for her, the lunch boxes he packed for his daughters. And instead of admiring him, I wanted him.

I started changing little things. I straightened my curly hair, dyed it a softer brown like hers, and even switched my perfume to a floral scent I overheard him complimenting once. I found excuses to stay late at the office, to ask for his help. It took nearly two years, but I wore him down.

It wasn’t sudden. It started with long conversations, “accidental” hand touches, and shared drinks after late nights. The day he told me he loved me felt like winning a prize I’d been chasing for too long.

He left his wife six months later.

He told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me, that his marriage had been “dying” anyway, that he deserved to be happy. I knew better. I knew he was lying—to himself, to me, and definitely to her. But I nodded and smiled because I wanted to win.

The first year with Marcus was electric. He was obsessed with me, always trying to prove that leaving his family wasn’t a mistake. He bought me gifts, took me on expensive trips, and talked about starting fresh, maybe having a kid someday.

But the more he gave me, the more I realized I didn’t want him. I had wanted the feeling of being chosen. Now that I was “the one,” I just felt… restless.

I started noticing things I hadn’t let myself see before.

How he never really apologized to his kids. How he avoided uncomfortable conversations. How he never took accountability for anything—just floated from excuse to excuse, blaming the world for his choices. I began to wonder: if he could leave them for me, what would stop him from leaving me for someone else?

That thought festered.

One evening, I sat across from him at dinner, watching him scroll through his phone while I picked at my food. And just like that, I knew I didn’t love him. Maybe I never did.

But breaking up with him wasn’t as easy as flipping a switch.

He’d given up so much, and he reminded me often. “I left everything for you,” he’d say. Or, “You’re all I have now.” Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he guilt-tripped me. And I’d stay quiet, nodding, pretending it was all okay.

Then something shifted again.

It was a random Tuesday. I was running errands when I saw his ex-wife at the grocery store. She looked tired but peaceful. She was helping their youngest pick out apples. They laughed about something, and I felt this sharp, painful twist in my chest. Not jealousy. Shame.

Later that night, I found myself looking her up online. I fell into a rabbit hole—photos of her and the kids, blog posts she’d written about healing, a video she shared about co-parenting after betrayal. She never mentioned Marcus directly, but it was clear she had walked through fire and rebuilt herself.

And the way she carried herself? There was no bitterness. No vengeance. Just quiet strength.

I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, I told Marcus I needed space. He didn’t take it well. He panicked, asked if there was someone else, accused me of using him. And the truth was… maybe I had. But not in the way he thought.

I moved into a short-term rental and started therapy. For the first time in years, I was alone—and I didn’t hate it. My therapist asked me things no one ever had. Why did I chase unavailable people? Why did I tie my self-worth to being desired? Why did I feel like I had to win against other women to feel good about myself?

It was like peeling an onion. Each session left me raw and exposed.

I started volunteering at a local afterschool program. It wasn’t planned. I just saw a flyer and thought, Why not? The kids were chaotic, loud, honest. They didn’t care about how I looked or what I had done. They just wanted someone to show up.

One girl in particular stuck with me—Alina. She was eight, smart-mouthed, stubborn, and obsessed with puzzles. Her mom was a single parent working two jobs. I found myself staying late just to help her finish her homework or listen to her stories about her cat.

One day, Alina asked, “Do you have kids?”

I hesitated. “No.”

She nodded. “You’d be a good mom. You listen.”

It hit me harder than I expected.

Marcus reached out a few times. Sometimes angry, sometimes desperate. I replied once, told him I wished him peace and hoped he’d be a better father moving forward. Then I blocked him.

A year passed.

I didn’t date. I didn’t chase anyone. I focused on myself, my healing, and the small moments that made me feel real again—making soup on rainy days, reading books in the park, laughing with strangers.

Eventually, I met someone new. His name was Theo.

He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t sweep me off my feet or chase me like a prize. We met at a community book club. He made terrible jokes and always brought snacks to share. Our first conversation was about how neither of us liked olives.

What made Theo different was his steadiness. He didn’t try to impress me. He listened. He remembered things I said in passing. When I told him my past—every ugly truth, every mistake—he didn’t flinch. He just said, “Thank you for trusting me.”

That was the moment I realized love doesn’t always come dressed like a storm. Sometimes it’s quiet. Like a soft sunrise after a long night.

Theo met Alina once at a volunteer event. She gave him a side-eye and asked, “Are you gonna marry her?”

He laughed. “Let me earn that first.”

We both laughed. But deep down, I knew—he already had.

Another twist came a few months later. I was at a networking event when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Marcus’s ex-wife.

I braced myself, expecting anger. But she surprised me.

She smiled and said, “You look… different. Healthier.”

I nodded, unsure what to say. But she continued, “I don’t hate you. I did, for a long time. But I don’t anymore.”

I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

She paused, then said, “We all lose ourselves sometimes. Just… make sure you don’t forget who you’ve become.”

I never saw her again, but those words stayed with me.

A few weeks later, Theo and I went on a hike. At the top, overlooking the trees and sunset, he pulled out a small, hand-written note. Not a ring. Not a speech. Just a note that read: “I love the woman you are today. And I’m grateful for everything that brought you here—even the messy parts.”

That night, I cried. Not out of regret, but gratitude.

I had been the other woman. I had made choices I wasn’t proud of. But life, in its strange and quiet way, had given me a second chance—not just at love, but at becoming the kind of person I could finally respect.

So here’s the thing: sometimes, we chase things that were never meant for us. We think winning someone over means we’ve won. But real love doesn’t come from competition or manipulation. It comes from growth, accountability, and choosing to be better—even when no one is watching.

And if you’ve ever messed up? There’s still a path forward.

You just have to be brave enough to take it.

If this story moved you or made you reflect, give it a like or share it with someone who might need to hear it.