At first, I thought it was a joke. Maybe she borrowed someone’s phone? Maybe I was misunderstanding something that had an innocent explanation.
But the next message shattered that illusion:
Aaron: “Of course. No one will ever know. ❤️”
I spent the rest of the night scrolling through their messages.
I felt my whole body go cold.
There were months of secret conversations—inside jokes, flirty banter, hotel bookings, pictures I didn’t want to see.
They were laughing about keeping it from me. About how I’d “never suspect.”
I remember reading the line: “She’s so trusting. Poor thing.” That was my mother. Talking about me.
It wasn’t just an affair. It was a betrayal by two of the people who were supposed to love me most.
When Aaron finally came home around 2 a.m., I was still awake, sitting on the couch.
“Hey,” he said softly, “you’re still up?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away.
I held up his phone. He froze.
“Is this true?” I asked, voice shaking but steady enough.
He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Claire… it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” I repeated. “You’re sleeping with my mother.”
He laughed nervously, like he could charm his way out of it. “You’ll understand, eventually. These things just… happen.”
Something in me snapped quiet. I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.
I just nodded. “Okay,” I said. “If that’s how it is.”
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