Elisa’s Story: An Unexpected Betrayal
The following story has been transcribed from two separate interviews with “Elisa.” The first interview was presented in three separate episodes of the Recovery Room podcast. The second interview, conducted five years later, was included in a later episode. If you would like to listen to them, the links are provided below. The transcripts were slightly edited to improve readability.
The Betrayal
[Listen to the Interview: Elisa’s Story 1: The Betrayal]
Tim: Do you believe you know the truth about your husband's infidelity?
Elisa: I know for a fact that my husband was unfaithful, and I think I know maybe 30 to 40 percent of the whole truth. I don’t think I’ll ever know more than that unless he tells me.
Tim: How did you learn that much?
Elisa: He only admitted what I had already discovered. There was never a confession—no “we need to talk” moment. He just told me he wanted to end our 18-year marriage, and his reasons didn’t make sense. No suggestion of counseling. No “I feel disconnected, let’s work on it.” He said I didn’t support him, that I’d never supported him, that I only tolerated him, that I was too focused on work to really be in the relationship, and he didn’t have it in him to stay. It came completely out of the blue.
Tim: So you didn’t see it coming—no sense of that level of dissatisfaction? No obvious clues?
Elisa: I was 100% blindsided.
Tim: At that point, had there been any admission or discovery of infidelity? Had you suspected anything?
Elisa: Zero suspicion. Even after he said he didn’t want to be married anymore, I held tightly to the belief that he would never be unfaithful. Friends asked, “Are you sure there isn’t someone else?” I was adamant: absolutely not—he’s not a cheater. I think I even said that to you.
Tim: I think so. And how did that opinion change?
Elisa: His story never added up. I was struck by the illustration you showed me with the magnets.
Tim: Go ahead—describe it.
Elisa: You pulled out two magnets, red and blue—me and my husband. You said that in long relationships, the magnets sometimes pull apart a little, but there’s a natural draw that brings them back together. Then you set them down apart and said that when they’re not reconnecting, there’s often another force at play. You pulled out a yellow magnet and put it on the far side of the “husband” magnet: some other gravitational pull.
Tim: Right. At the time, I didn’t know whether that “pull” was a person, an idea, or a goal more important than the marriage—but it suggested there was something else affecting the two of you.
Elisa: That stuck with me. I thought the gravity was his desire for freedom—to pursue a dream of being a famous singer. I was convinced of it.
Tim: How did that explanation change?
Elisa: Over a couple of weeks. I kept thinking, “Why would he end our marriage to chase music?” I supported his hobby. I enjoyed that he had it. I couldn’t understand why he’d have to cut me out to pursue it. His reasons didn’t add up. He said I worked too much, that I was too focused on my job, that I didn’t get home in time to make dinner, that he felt like a chauffeur, and that we were just logistical coordinators.
We had two young kids and two full-time jobs—this is the grind of life for parents with elementary-aged children. These weren’t insurmountable problems. I offered solutions: adjust my schedule, work from home a few days, plan date nights, and scale back kid activities. None of it made sense as a reason to end a marriage.
Tim: When a partner rings the alarm, it’s usually to say something’s wrong and ask, “Can we fix this?” It’s unusual to ring the alarm for the first time and say, “I’m unhappy, here’s why—and I’m out.” That’s not normal.
Elisa: Exactly. We did go to counseling once, shortly before I started meeting with you. It was the most painful hour. I laid out that we had a good relationship—we rarely fought, we agreed on parenting and finances, we enjoyed time and vacations together, and our sex life was good. After 18 years and no prior warning, why wasn’t he committed to working on it? At the end, I told him I was 100% in and would do whatever it takes. I said I hadn’t heard the same from him. The therapist asked him directly: “Are you committed to making this work?” He turned away and mumbled, “I don’t know.” That was it.
That same afternoon, I took our two boys to visit their grandparents for five days. It was the last thing I wanted—to be apart. I later learned he spent those five days with his girlfriend, texting and FaceTiming me from a nondescript location so I wouldn’t realize it wasn’t our house.
Tim: How did you eventually start discovering the truth?
Elisa: I looked at his phone. I’m not a snooper—I’ve always respected his privacy because I trusted him—but after our sessions and his inconsistent behavior, I did. He had said he wanted out, but hadn’t left. He still wanted sex, made me drinks, sat next to me on the couch, suggested movies—acting like a spouse even after earth-shattering conversations. It was confusing. Part of me felt hope; another part was very anxious. A brush in the kitchen would send me out of my body—“What does this mean? Does this mean you love me? Want to stay?” I was on high alert.
We argued a lot. I kept asking, “Tell me why. Why no counseling? Why aren’t the kids reason enough to try?” He’d get angry and say, “Stop asking, I’ve told you.” One night I asked, “Is there someone else?” He got defensive—“Who would I be seeing? When?” The next night he came in angry, accusing me of waking the kids and “lacing” into him. That’s when I thought: I need to look at his phone.
Tim: You’re describing gaslighting—when someone with something to hide avoids responsibility by making you the problem: too insistent, too inquisitive, “out of control.”
Elisa: I see that now—and I think I sensed it then because it didn’t make sense that we couldn’t talk about ending an 18-year marriage.
One night he took the kids to bed and left his phone on the chair. I knew the password. I opened his texts. Two things stood out: tons of messages from numbers with no contact names, and—at the top—a woman’s full name I didn’t recognize. I opened that thread. They were exchanging jokes and memes. I scrolled back and saw: she asked, “How’s it going living with your wife?” He replied, “She’s really upset, keeps yelling and crying, saying, ‘This isn’t you.’” She asked, “Does she know about the affairs?” He said, “No.” She asked, “Do you plan to tell her?” He said, “No.”
That’s when the Earth stopped moving. As I read, it felt like the two of them were mocking me—the naïve wife who wouldn’t just let him go.
He came downstairs and saw me sitting there with his phone.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. I said, “Who the F is [the other woman’s name]?” He said, “What?” I repeated it.
For a split second, he made a face—a grimace—that said “busted,” then composed himself.
I was furious. “She said ‘affairs’—plural. How many? Are you sleeping with her? Who are you sleeping with?”
He pivoted to, “What about my privacy? Thanks for looking at my phone.”
I yelled, “Are we really talking about trust? I looked at your phone. You broke our vows. There’s a big difference.” I even offered, “Would you like to read my texts to friends? They say my husband would never cheat on me.”
His conflict style is like a turtle—he shuts down. I told him to leave: “Pack your stuff and go.” I locked myself in my room. Later he knocked and asked to talk. I let him in. He said, “I have gone outside our marriage.” I asked, “How many times?” He said, “Two.”
Tim: That satisfies the plural—the minimum number.
Elisa: Exactly. He said one was a masseuse who came to a show, gave him her number, and made it clear she didn’t care he was married. Sometime after the show—sober, not drunk—he called her and had sex with her. He said “three or four times”; I don’t believe that. He added, “She was crazy; I had to end it.” I remember thinking, am I supposed to feel bad for you?
The second was a one-night stand on a work trip. He met someone at a concert, took her for drinks, then back to his hotel. First and last time, he said.
Tim: So he admits two affairs, both “in the past”—and claims they have nothing to do with why he’s leaving.
Elisa: Exactly. He said the first was 18 months earlier, the second about nine months earlier. I asked about the woman he was texting: “Are you having an affair with her?” He said no—“just a friend,” maybe a lesbian. I said, “She knows more about our marriage than I do. I don’t believe she’s just a friend. Why are you discussing our arguments and mocking me with her?” He insisted they were just friends.
Tim: When those texts appeared, you said, “That’s when the world stopped.” It’s hard to describe what happens inside when something so unexpected is suddenly undeniable. How would you describe it?
Elisa: Like a deafening white-noise machine going off in my ears. My eyes lost focus. My ears rang. Static. Everything shut down in the shock—realizing my worst nightmare was true, and more: not just one affair but a history I knew nothing about. My stomach dropped, like falling on a roller coaster—pure dread. If he hadn’t walked downstairs when he did, I might have stayed frozen. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to take the phone, lock myself in my room, take screenshots, and look at the other mystery texts. I probably had his phone for three minutes, tops.
Tim: You suspect that might have given you a fuller picture—beyond 30 to 40 percent.
Elisa: Yes. Though I can also see the flip side: maybe it’s better I didn’t see everything.
Tim: If we could control it, I’d want you to know the truth that actually helps you, while being spared images or details that would only harm.
Elisa: I’m grateful I didn’t see images—though I wouldn’t be surprised if they exist. I just wish I’d had a little more time to read.
Tim: You’re moving toward divorce—no plan to reconcile—and yet it still bothers you that you don’t know more. How would knowing more help you now? Whether by discovery or his confession, do you think it would help, and how?
Elisa: I want to know more because I deserve to know the truth. I don’t know that it would help my recovery, and it wouldn’t make me think any less of him—I already think the lowest of him. But I cherished our marriage and family. I loved our history—before kids and as a family. We had unique, non-standard adventures. I feel I deserve to know: at what point did our realities diverge? When did he stop cherishing what we had and start seeking things outside the marriage?
Tim: It’s hard to hold one story of your past and then learn in an instant that it wasn’t accurate. You know what you experienced together, but now there’s another reality you can only see 30–40% of—and you may never have more clarity than that.
Elisa: There’s another layer to why I say 30–40%. I know for sure that in the last two to three years he was unfaithful, and I know the patterns he used to hide it. I can look back years earlier and recognize the same patterns. I had no suspicions then, but now—knowing how he kept secrets and what his go-to lies were for not being home—and knowing he had 100% control of our finances (I never looked at statements until after I discovered the affairs)—I started digging.
Finances revealed more truth. That’s how I learned the “friend” was a girlfriend: her name on airline tickets charged to our card, hotel rooms booked in her name on our card. The behavior was the same earlier; I just don’t have the evidence. That’s where my 30–40% comes from—not only recent history (which I also think I only know 30–40% of). I don’t believe there were only “a minimum of three.” I think he was living a very dangerous lifestyle, and it goes back much farther than I’ll ever know.
Clarity, Pain, & Choices
[Listen to the Interview: Elisa’s Story 2: Clarity, Pain, Choices]
Tim: Going back to the moment you found out—you locked yourself in your room, he was in his office, and you were trying to quiet the static in your head. He knocked on the door. Do you remember what you felt when you heard that knock?
Elisa: Dread. I wanted him out. Whatever he was coming to say, I didn’t want it then. He knocked, and for me it was: you have to leave. I need you to leave and not take up space in this house a moment longer. It was dread.
Tim: How did you get from his story—“Yes, you caught me; I had two affairs in the past, but that’s not why I’m leaving”—to realizing there was more?
Elisa: His stories didn’t make sense. I kept asking, “If your last affair was nine months ago, why didn’t you leave then? Why did we buy a house? Why now?” Something was pulling him out. “What is it?” He claimed the woman I’d found was “just a friend,” but that didn’t add up. We had ugly arguments. I told him, “I know she’s your girlfriend. You owe me the truth.”
He’d either shut down or come back at me with anger: “There is nobody else. I just don’t want to be with you. You’re the problem. You stifle me. I want my freedom. We’ll co-parent fine. The kids won’t be impacted much—you’re at work during the day; they’re used to one parent at a time. What’s the difference if it’s from a different house?”
He kept pushing for divorce with a mediator—“cheaper and faster.” I said I wouldn’t decide until he gave me login credentials to our accounts. He had handed me a spreadsheet listing assets, two neat columns—his and mine—balanced at the bottom. “Agree to this, and we can wrap it up in one mediation session.” This was less than two weeks after I discovered his first affair. I was still in shock. And he was sending mixed signals—cooking dinner, holding my hand, wanting sex, acting like a spouse—then handing me a spreadsheet and a list of mediators.
I told him I didn’t trust him or the spreadsheet. If he wanted me to move forward with anything (a divorce I didn’t even want), I needed access to all accounts. I was willing to try counseling. Maybe a separation. If the last affair was nine or ten months ago, I wanted to see if the marriage could be saved. He was almost cruel about it. I’d ask, “Are you sure this is what you want?” He’d laugh: “Oh yeah.” I’d say, “You could say that kinder. You know this isn’t what I want. That’s not a laughable question.”
So I forced the credentials. I gave him a list of accounts I knew and said, “Add any I don’t.” He did. I probably shouldn’t have done it during work hours, but once I had access, my brain locked in. I spent an afternoon pulling statements—month by month, account by account—saving PDFs because I figured this was my one chance before he changed passwords. I went back as far as possible across checking and credit cards.
Buried in there I found her last name—on bills, airline tickets, hotels. I saw where he really was when he said it was a work trip or a conference he was speaking at that didn’t exist. He was vacationing in Florida with her. He claimed he’d picked up consulting work—in her town, conveniently. It took me a while to realize those were fake jobs. I noticed lots of trip expenses but no reimbursements. Then it clicked: none of this was work.
Tim: Now you had fresh evidence of an affair he hadn’t admitted. When you confronted him, what did he say?
Elisa: I didn’t confront him. I didn’t know how. He knew what was in the statements, so as soon as I started looking, he knew he was busted. He came to me, appearing contrite, sat down in my office, and said—slightly choked up—“I’m sorry I betrayed you with our finances.” It was the most non-apology for an affair I’ve ever heard. As if spending thousands on his girlfriend was worse than the sexual betrayal itself.
I asked, “Are you willing to tell me the truth now? Who is she? Where did you meet? She’s not a former colleague—LinkedIn shows she never worked for your company. How long have you known her?” Even then, parts of his story weren’t true; I’ve since uncovered more. He still didn’t tell the whole truth.
I told him he needed to move out immediately. That was priority one. About six weeks had passed between discovering “past” affairs and learning the truth about the long-term affair that was still ongoing.
Tim: That was still going on.
Elisa: Yes. In those six weeks, I lost 15 to 20 pounds.
Tim: You’re a small woman already—losing that much is a lot.
Elisa: I looked ill. I was getting maybe two hours of sleep a night. I couldn’t eat. I cried all day. I’ve never been an anxious person—usually calm, not easily stressed—but the panic was constant: seeing him come around the corner brought a wave of betrayal; seeing him on his phone brought dread—“Who is he talking to?” It was unbearable. I needed him out of the house.
That’s when I hired a lawyer. I didn’t trust the spreadsheet or him. I still had no idea of the full depth of what happened because he only ever admitted what I discovered—never once volunteered new information. I filed for divorce and served him. We requested a hearing asking the judge to give me possession of the house so I could legally require him to leave—he refused to go and insisted he wouldn’t leave until I agreed in writing to 50/50 custody.
Tim: You’ve described the shock of discovering you were married to someone who cheated—the past you thought was true wasn’t the whole truth, and much of it may remain a mystery. That’s one trauma. But now there’s another: in the present, he’s in a new relationship and choosing to leave you to be with someone else—leaving the wife he promised to, the mother of his two children, all those shared years and memories. You thought you’d figure out life together, and now he’s saying, “I’m not happy; I’m in love with someone else,” and moving quickly into that new reality. How have you dealt with that?
Elisa: Not great. I’m very angry at him, obviously. I think he’s a bad person. It’s painful to say it because for my whole adult life, I thought the world of him: integrity, compassion, a mission to help others. He’s a fraud. He’s none of those things—except that he wants other people to believe he is.
A little over three months after moving out, his girlfriend and her two kids moved in with him. So the 50% of the time my kids are at his house, they’re also living with the woman who broke up our marriage and her children.
I’m really bothered, especially as she seems to be making herself permanent in his home and my kids’ lives. I’m troubled by the prospect of interacting with both of them for the foreseeable future—my kids are young—and I’m working hard to figure out how to manage those interactions without losing it.
Tim: In a relatively short time, from my perspective, you’ve made significant progress in your healing. But at the beginning, it didn’t look that way. You’ve talked about anger, but it wasn’t just anger.
Elisa: It was grief. A huge part at the start was losing your best friend—he’s right in front of you, but different, mean, not caring for you anymore. We’ve been married 18 years, together 20; we started dating at 18. This relationship has occupied my entire adult life. The grief of what was lost was overwhelming.
Honestly, it might have felt easier if he’d died—I wouldn’t have discovered his betrayal, and I would have still felt loved. Instead, I have to interact with the person who broke me, every day, and his partner.
Tim: Can you talk about the whiplash of going from “I’m loved” to “I’m not loved,” to “He’s choosing someone else to love instead of me”?
Elisa: It’s all the feelings—worthlessness, constant questions. Why wasn’t I important enough for you to talk to before this got out of hand? Why didn’t you value me, your wife, and our family? He told me they met two years ago and texted for nine months before “meeting” again to have sex. They met in person, exchanged numbers, built a relationship by text, then planned a fake work trip to rendezvous in another city.
I think about those nine months a lot—the opportunity he had to stop. All the family moments we created while he was choosing, every day, to go deeper and deeper away from our family. Why weren’t we (my kids and I) important enough for him to say, “This is dangerous; I shouldn’t do it”?
It’s heartbreaking. And while he was building that text relationship, he was also sleeping with other people. That’s why he’s hard to label—he’s all the types of cheater at once: the guy who meets someone at a bar and goes to a hotel; the guy who builds a short “relationship,” tests it out, then breaks it off; and the guy who courts someone over texts and FaceTime for months before meeting. Every single type, all at the same time.
Tim: When you wrestle with the confusion—how could this happen?—your curiosity seems to focus on “What’s wrong with him?” which is a fair question. Did it ever turn into “What’s wrong with me? Why wasn’t I enough?”
Elisa: Of course. When your husband carries on multiple affairs over multiple years and, in my reality, we had a loving, stable, committed relationship, we were a team, we had a really good sex life—it’s hard not to ask: Wasn’t I enough? I read stories where people say, “We hadn’t touched in years, so I’m not surprised.” That wasn’t us.
So yes, I wonder: Did he not enjoy our sex life as much as I did? What was I not doing right? If I’d come home earlier and cooked more dinners, would he have stayed?
But I keep coming back to the fact that he doesn’t fit a single “type.” The breadth of his behavior actually gives me some comfort that I’m not the problem. Sure, I can see places I could have been kinder or done things differently—everyone can—but none of that justifies what he did. We had a good relationship.
In the aftermath, talking with close friends and family, every single one of them said some version of: “He was always incredibly self-centered. Hard to live with. It was all about him.” They’d say, “We don’t know how you could support him more—what he asked wasn’t normal.” I gave so much and asked so little. He couldn’t even give the minimum: don’t have sex with other people. At a minimum, you committed to me because I’m your wife.
I’ve realized that the man I believed him to be—caring, devoted, loyal, full of integrity and compassion—doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t know how much he ever did, and how much was just what he wanted me to believe.
Tim: Has he ever accepted responsibility—“This is on me”?
Elisa: Never.
Tim: It serves him to make you feel responsible for his dissatisfaction.
Elisa: Absolutely. He’s never shown genuine regret or remorse. It’s frustrating, but I’m starting to accept I may never get that—and I have to be okay with it. I can’t force it, and I don’t want it if it isn’t real. At this point, I want as little to do with him as possible and need time and space.
If he ever does have a realization, I hope it’s years from now. I couldn’t handle it if he came with “genuine remorse” tomorrow, or next month, or even within the year—that would really mess with my head. I need a lot more distance.
Tim: Your healing is moving on without him.
Elisa: Yes.
The Children & the Affair Partner
[Listen to the Interview: Elisa’s Story 3: The Children, the AP]
Tim: How else would you describe your personal healing? What’s been important for you? What do you know will matter in your next steps?
Elisa: First, keeping myself healthy—eating, exercising, doing things I genuinely enjoy, spending time with people I want to be with and not with those I don’t. And taking care of my kids. The boys are deeply, profoundly upset by all this. They’re my number-one priority because they’re really struggling.
What’s hardest is seeing a path of recovery for them. I have you, and a lot of resources and friends. As an adult, I know I need to talk, to go to therapy, to pursue emotional, mental, and physical recovery from this trauma. But my kids are 8 and 11. They don’t understand why therapy matters or why talking helps—whether that’s with me, trusted friends’ parents, their own friends, or grandparents. They don’t know what they need to heal. And their dad isn’t really helping.
Tim: You mentioned earlier that his perspective was, “This won’t be much of an adjustment—it’ll just be in different places. They’ll adapt. The kids will be okay.” Are they okay?
Elisa: No, not at all. My 11-year-old is very angry. Thankfully, he talks to me about it and explains why he’s mad and how he feels. But he doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to do; that’s always been him. He marches to his own beat, confident in who he is—which I love about him. He hates this situation, and what makes him angriest is feeling powerless.
In other parts of life, if his friends wanted to play football and he didn’t, he’d just go home—no hard feelings. Here, he doesn’t want to be at his dad’s because he’s angry and there are strangers living there. Then he looks to me: “You’re my mom. Fix this.” He doesn’t yet know how to process that anger or cope when he can’t change the situation.
Tim: Most family and child therapists would encourage waiting a good while—often close to a year—before introducing new partners after a separation, for the kids’ sake.
Elisa: At the earliest.
Tim: But their father didn’t wait. He moved quickly—introduced his girlfriend and had her move in. Have they expressed their feelings about that to him?
Elisa: Yes.
Tim: And what have they told you about his response?
Elisa: They say he does one of three things: ignores them entirely; responds sarcastically—“Oh, I bet it’s so much better at your mom’s”—which diminishes what they’re saying; or he gets angry and tells them to shut up. There’s not a lot of listening, compassion, or understanding happening there.
They’ve asked him, “Why is she moving in so soon? We’re not ready. We don’t want to live with her or her kids.” My 11-year-old said the other day, “Dad must think we’re really stupid to believe his reasons.” When I asked what those were, he said their dad told them she couldn’t find an affordable short-term rental so the only option was to move in with him. My son said, “If she can’t find short-term, why not a long-term lease for a year? There are lots of apartments.” That’s my 11-year-old—coming up with solutions and saying, “I don’t understand.”
They’ve concluded he lies to them, and it drives them crazy that he doesn’t listen, doesn’t ask their opinions about their living situation, doesn’t even give a courtesy “Are you okay with this?” It’s just, “Here’s what’s happening.” And when they ask for answers, he gives answers they can tell aren’t true.
Tim: What are things typically like when they come back from visiting their father?
Elisa: It depends on what happened there. If something dramatic occurred, I hear about it almost immediately—someone bursts into tears, someone gives me the whole story. That happens pretty often because everything is moving so fast. Other times, they’re just relieved to be home—like they can exhale. It feels like home here: their space, no strangers.
My eight-year-old has told me several times he’s worried he’ll come home one day and I’ll have a boyfriend living here. I reassure him: that’s not happening. Whatever my future holds, it won’t play out like this. For the foreseeable future, this home is for the three of us—no one is moving in. And if someday, far down the road, that ever changed, it won’t be a surprise to anyone.
Usually, the night before they have to go back to their dad’s is hard. Both boys get emotional; my eight-year-old gets moody, grumpy, mouthy—and he’s self-aware enough to say, “I’m really stressed. I’m really worried. I don’t want to go. I’m worried about what will happen.”
Tim: What do they worry about?
Elisa: I’ve asked. My youngest has frequent nightmares there. He’s scared of the nightmares, and he also doesn’t feel comfortable going into his dad’s room for comfort because the girlfriend is in there. He was braving it anyway—crossing the hall—but now their dad locks the door. Even late at night, when intimacy isn’t an issue, the door is locked. So my youngest has a nightmare, tries to get comfort, and can’t get in. He worries about that.
My older son worries about the other kids in the house—there’s a boy about my youngest’s age and a teenage girl. He’s angry about “interlopers.” He suspects that when he and his brother aren’t there, the boy sleeps in his room. On the days my kids are there, the boy sleeps on the couch in the playroom; but he’s there 100% of the time and my kids only 50%.
My son asked his dad, “Does he sleep in my bed when I’m not here?” Dad said, “No.” My son told me, “I think he’s lying.” So he’s mad. And my younger son—“depressed” is the best word. He’s sad. He’ll be playing and fine, then you can see a shadow pass over his face—sudden grief, like it hits me sometimes when I see a car that looks like his and I have to pull over to collect myself. I see that in my eight-year-old all the time.
Tim: What’s it like handing your children off to their father?
Elisa: I hate it. It would be different if they were happy there, or if he had made different choices—if he hadn’t moved his girlfriend and her kids in immediately, if he’d put our kids’ interests first in the most traumatic time of their lives. He failed them. If he had kept the house for the three of them, given them attention, supported their feelings and anger, been truthful about why he ended our relationship—it would be very different. They wouldn’t be asking me, “Mom, if I stole Dad’s phone and called you to come get me tomorrow night, would you?”
Tim: To give context, did this tension between them and their father exist before all this? Was their relationship with him distant?
Elisa: No. They had a very good relationship with him. That’s one of the hardest parts—watching someone go from a loving, caring dad to someone trying so hard to pretend there isn’t a problem. It’s like he thinks by sheer willpower, if he doesn’t acknowledge their struggle, it will go away. They’re not getting that from me.
I tell them, “You can talk to me. I’m here. I’ll listen. I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this.” I’ll move mountains for them. They don’t get any of that from their dad. And just like I never thought he’d be a cheater, I never thought he’d knowingly ignore his kids’ needs to serve his own interests.
Tim: Here’s a man who’s hurt you deeply, and now you see how it’s affecting your children—his children. It would be easy to point to the evidence and say, “Look how badly your father is behaving.” I know you’re not doing that. Why?
Elisa: Because it’s not right for the kids. I can tell my close friends what a bad father he’s being, but my kids are 8 and 11, and they can see for themselves what kind of person he is. I don’t need to spell it out. He’ll be in their lives forever, and for a long time he’ll be a big part of their lives until they’re old enough to decide what they want. If I vilify him and try to turn them against him, that helps no one. He’s not going away.
The best thing I can do is sit with them, grieve with them, listen, be compassionate—and also remind them that their dad loves them, because I believe he does. They love him too. I tell them, “I’m sorry your dad is hurting you. I’m sorry he’s not being truthful. I know he loves you very much. I don’t know why he’s making these decisions, but I do know he loves you.”
Tim: That’s what I’ve witnessed in you. You haven’t just refrained from criticizing him—you actively encourage them to have the best relationship with their father they can.
Elisa: I’m trying. He’s not helping.
Tim: You can’t do his job for him. You can do your job as a mother and co-parent—encourage what’s in their best interest: a healthy relationship with their father. As much as you can encourage their part, you’re doing a great job. But you can’t make his choices for him.
Elisa: I know—and that’s the frustrating part. It seems like at every turn, he’s making choices that make it harder for the kids.
Tim: There’s still a future. Maybe we’ll do another episode later—there are anxieties and fears about what life looks like with this other woman in the picture. Up to now, you’ve avoided interaction and social gatherings where she’s present. You wonder when, or if, that will happen.
Elisa: Somehow, this stranger uprooted my entire life and replaced me. I think, “I don’t know you. What did I ever do to deserve this treatment from you? I didn’t harm you. Why are you destroying my world—my life, my family unit?” She started a relationship with my husband knowing he was married and had young kids. Who does that?
A little over three months after he moved out, she and her two kids moved in with him. So half the time my kids are at his house, they’re living with the woman who broke up our marriage and her children. I’m bothered, especially because she seems to be making herself permanent in his home and in my kids’ lives. I’m troubled by the prospect of having to interact with them for the foreseeable future. My kids are young. I’m trying hard to figure out how to manage those interactions without losing it.
I’ve written a letter. I haven’t printed it because I’m still editing. But I feel on the clock—she lives there. There’ll be a day I have to pick up the kids, go to the door, and I’m not ready. So I’m writing a letter and trying to shorten it.
Tim: A letter in case you encounter her?
Elisa: Yes. Like you said, this is something I can control. I don’t know when or how I’ll run into her, but it will happen. If I speak to her unprepared, it will be ugly. I’ll say all the things, call all the names, make a scene. Part of me wants to. But if the kids are there, I know I’d regret it.
So I’m drafting a letter about what I want to say to someone who played a major role in dismantling my life, whom I’ve never met—what I want her to know about the truth of my marriage and how my reality likely differs from whatever he told her. That’s what I’m trying to focus the letter on.
Tim: I love that you’re being intentional. If we leave it to “we’ll see what happens,” things come out we wish we’d said differently—or not at all.
Elisa: I’ve rehearsed the screaming version in my head; I could nail that on the first take. It might not be the right move.
Tim: When someone plans what they’d want to say, they always have that option. Write it. Even carry it when there’s a chance you’ll see her. You never have to use it. You might still say what’s been playing in your head, but you’ve created another option—and the more you’ve thought about it, the more intentional your words can be.
Elisa: What’s interesting in editing is that it started out long, with everything in it. As I edit, I keep assuming that if I gave it to her, she’d hand it straight to my husband. A friend once gave me advice after he sent a particularly dark email: “Don’t respond. He doesn’t get to know what’s in your head anymore. He’s lost the privilege of your thoughts and feelings. It’s a mystery to him now.”
I think about that with the letter, too. I don’t want to reveal all my thoughts to her; much of that is for me. What do I really want her to know about her part in this? She doesn’t have the right to my inner life.
I have a long way to go. It’s only been six or seven months since my world changed. I still have days with no focus, where I just need a punching bag. Raw, visceral screaming in my head that won’t stop. I’m not through this yet, though I’ve come a long way.
Tim: You’re farther along than someone at the very beginning. That’s valuable to hear: months out, there are still days of wanting to scream, days of feeling lost or confused—there’s still a lot of recovery ahead.
Elisa: What helped me in those first awful weeks—especially when he was still in the house and we were fighting and every few days there was a new grenade of discovery—was giving myself grace not to do this perfectly. You said that, and a few friends did too. Allowing myself some margin not to respond perfectly in every scenario was crucial.
I’ve been put in a situation I didn’t ask for and never planned for. So, yes, I’ll poke the bear and get into a big fight sometimes; I’ll overshare and feel a little guilty. But also… it is what it is. I may expose my pain to the kids too often at first. I’m learning to allow myself to fail and still be okay.
Tim: That’s my observation: in all the messiness—because nobody gets through this clean or perfect—you keep moving forward. You keep taking steps in the right direction. Do you believe there’s hope for something better?
Elisa: Absolutely. I’m looking forward to things on my own. I’m enjoying making decisions—small and big. I bought new office furniture, painted the walls, and didn’t have to ask anyone’s opinion or budget approval. I love my office.
And I’m hoping we can travel again. Maybe next summer. I want to take my kids on vacation. Historically, their dad picked and planned every trip; it wasn’t a democracy. We had fun, but it was always what he wanted. I’ve picked three locations at similar cost and made posters with pictures and activity ideas—one beach, one city, one in the mountains. When it feels right to travel, I’ll show them options and let them choose. Then I’ll plan the trip.
I want to do something they want to do and let them have a say. I’m excited. He would never have done that—because if he didn’t get what he wanted, why spend the money? I want to see delight in my kids’ eyes as we plan a fun trip somewhere new.
Someday I’ll be in another relationship, but I’m not thinking about that now. I’m focused on being a great mom, making decisions I never had the power to make before—things that feel good and are for me—and creating special, unique experiences with my kids that aren’t the same as what they get with their dad.
5 Years Later…
[This interview is included in the podcast: Runaway Husbands Part 2. It was recorded five years after the interview in parts 1-3 transcribed above.]
Tim: Today, I’ve asked you to reflect on your experience as someone who really fits the “runaway husband” victim description. You were blindsided by your husband saying he was done with the marriage, and you didn’t understand why. What do you remember about that time—your impressions—and what might you say to other women facing the same thing?
Elisa: A couple of things come to mind. First, how wildly my decisions and desires changed day to day. There were days I was so angry I needed him out of the house immediately—“This is over. Get out. I never want to see you again.” The next day I’d be in disbelief: Do I really want this to end? If he’d shown even a little compassion, empathy, remorse, or a hint that his decision wasn’t final, would I have taken him back and tried to work on it?
In hindsight, that was grief. It’s not linear—denial, disbelief, anger—bouncing from stage to stage until, over time, the swings stretch out. Eventually, there is an end to it. The intensity eases. But this kind of betrayal also takes up residence in your body. Even now, five years later, I can catch myself spiraling—How could you do this?—and I have to say, “You’ve moved on. This isn’t worth your energy.” I can set it aside now, but those triggers still exist.
Tim: I think that’s an important truth. We can be guilty of creating an overly optimistic expectation: “Do the work, you’ll get through, life will be even better.” There’s some truth there, but it’s also hard, and some effects can last a lifetime.
Elisa: I agree. I’m very happy now. I’m in a great place—career, support system, friends, fulfilling social life. My kids are doing awesome. I’m genuinely happy with where I’m at, and I’d be a different person if that relationship had continued. Both things can be true: I’m fulfilled and excited about the future, and I still carry grief. Those feelings can still surface, raw, even years later. When they do, I don’t shut them out. I take ten or fifteen minutes to cry, sit with it, and then get on with my day.
Tim: After all this time, I can see you can still feel those things. Do you ever wonder whether having more warning, or knowing the truth sooner, would have made a difference?
Elisa: Two thoughts. I didn’t need more warning—I needed more honesty and transparency about why it was happening. In my case, the breakup was at the end of March. If you’d told me on New Year’s Day that by the end of the first quarter my marriage would be over, and by the end of May we’d have filed for divorce and he’d have moved out, I would’ve said that’s impossible. Yet that’s what happened.
What still frustrates me is that even when I poked holes in his stories and begged, “Just tell me the truth,” he never did, until I discovered it myself. I wish I’d been shown the courtesy and respect of a clean, truthful account so I could reach decisions faster. So it wasn’t more time; it was more truth.
Second, I’m deeply grateful he didn’t make a halfhearted show of “trying to make it work” to save face. From the moment he said, “I’m not in this; I’m leaving,” he never really wavered. My recovery would’ve been harder and longer if he’d played a game, given me false hope, and dragged things out to the same conclusion. I’m glad that didn’t happen.
Tim: That’s an angle I hadn’t considered. A period of false hope—playing the game while moving toward the same end—would mean wasted time, extended pain, and even more damage to your ability to trust. Maybe that’s a silver lining in a very dark cloud.
Elisa: It is an unexpected blessing in an awful circumstance. I’m grateful he didn’t give me false hope. It got me on the path to recovery, independence, and a new identity much faster.
Elisa: One of the hardest things to accept was realizing he was no longer a place I could go for comfort, security, or safety. The faster I understood, I won’t get what I need from him—stop trying, the easier it was to detach and make decisions that benefited me and my kids. That was a hard pill to swallow—telling myself: Don’t go to him. He isn’t caring for you or acting in your best interest. Seek comfort from trusted sources elsewhere. Setting that boundary strengthened all my boundaries. It helped me protect my peace and well-being.
There was also a lot of “rewriting” from him—statements about our history that didn’t match my reality. I loved our journey and what we built as a family. I still hold those memories. My kids were old enough to have “before divorce” and “after divorce” memories. If I allow the “before” to be tainted or rewritten, it affects how we reminisce: “Remember when…?” I want them to keep positive memories from that time, too. Both can be true: you keep your happy memories intact, and the person who was part of them is now a stranger, a different person.
Tim: What else would you want to tell a woman who finds herself in a similar situation?
Elisa: Give yourself space. Don’t feel pressured to decide or act on his timetable. Focus on what you need—information, rest, support—and make your decision when you’re ready and confident. Do not move quickly just because that’s what he wants. You have control. That was really important.
