I’m writing this because I can’t carry the silence anymore. I don’t want advice. I don’t need anyone to fix it. I just want someone to see this. To hear me. To know this story happened, and it hurt.
I’m writing this because I can’t carry the silence anymore. I don’t want advice. I don’t need anyone to fix it. I just want someone to see this. To hear me. To know this story happened, and it hurt.
I’m a mom in Mexico. I was in a relationship with a man — let’s call him Daniel — for four years. We lived together. He helped raise my son, who called him “dad.” We were building a life. He told people we were getting married. We adopted pets. We planned trips. And then one day, he packed a change of clothes, walked out the door, and left us like we were nothing.
And the worst part? He’s still with the girl he cheated on me with.
We met by chance, at a concert. We locked eyes like something cinematic. A week later, he liked one of my posts — I recognized him from his profile photo, and we started talking. He was charismatic, handsome, charming, goofy in a disarming way. He wasn’t cocky — he was magnetic.
We dated. It started slow. I introduced him to my son as “my friend.” He started staying over. And not long after, he just… stayed. He moved in during the pandemic. We adopted a cat. He brought his dog. My home became his home.
My son adored him. He played with him, taught him to ride a bike, watched Pokémon, helped with schoolwork, tickled him to sleep. He let my son call him “dad.” Not because I asked him to — but because he chose to fill that role.
But behind the scenes, I was carrying everything.
He didn’t work. Didn’t clean. Didn’t help. I paid the bills. I raised my son. I held the household together. Even when he finally got a job, he still didn’t contribute. He spent his money on gym food, protein powders, pre-workout, supplements. Once, he even bought an illegal monitor lizard and smuggled it from the U.S. and he sometimes bought dog food.
I asked for a break. I needed space. He agreed. Took a few things. Said it wasn’t forever.
That night, I got a message from another woman.
She said:
“Hi, I think you’re his girlfriend. I didn’t know he was living with someone. We’ve been dating for a month.”
I fell apart. I lost 20 pounds. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I was humiliated and heartbroken.
During that time, I started talking to someone else — a kind man, let’s call him Fernando. He was gentle. Supportive. Patient. I wasn’t even ready to date, but he showed up for me during one of the darkest chapters of my life.
But when Daniel found out I was seeing someone else?
He snapped.
He cried. Threw rocks at my window. Begged to come back. Said we were his family. That it was me he loved. That she meant nothing. That he was lost and wanted to change.
And I — still in love, still hoping it wasn’t all fake — let him back in.
That was my biggest mistake.
We had a chaotic night that ended with us in a holding cell. I won’t say why — just that my dad had to pay to get him out. And in that cold, grim place, Daniel proposed. Just kneeled out of nowhere.
I said, “Not like this. Not now.”
Later, he took me to meet his family. He bought me a ring. He told everyone we were getting married — including my own family. He even said what month we’d do it.
Then, on a trip to Sayulita, something happened. A man I genuinely thought was gay complimented my eyelashes and kissed me — I pulled away immediately, but Daniel saw. He never gave me the ring after that. He never let it go.
I later found out that I got pregnant on that trip.
I had an abortion. I was scared. Emotionally alone. And Daniel? He didn’t comfort me. He didn’t cry. He didn’t hold me.
He just looked… relieved.
Not long after, we went to Puerto Vallarta. Daniel had broken his foot, and I pushed him in a wheelchair for the entire trip. I was exhausted — emotionally, physically, spiritually.
One night, I got blackout drunk and kissed someone. I didn’t remember anything. I only knew what happened because Daniel told me. And I hated myself for it. I still do.
Then Daniel found messages from an old ex. Emotional messages. Things I should’ve let go of. He read them silently. Held onto them for days. Then, when we had friends over — people I didn’t even know — he snapped.
“Shut up. No one’s talking to you.”
It stunned me. His friend stood up, told him not to speak to me like that, and they fought. Afterward, that same friend pulled me aside and asked if Daniel always treated me this way.
I started to wonder: Had I been ignoring the signs?
That night, Daniel exploded. Screamed at me. Called me a whore. Accused me of sleeping with my ex. Said he had read the messages. But what killed me was how long he sat on it. Pretending. Waiting.
But things changed. We weren’t intimate anymore. He always had an excuse — his stomach, his head, he was tired, he had to go to the gym early. I started feeling rejected. Small. Like my desire for closeness was a problem.
We even went to a sex therapist. He said he couldn’t get it up. But I knew in my gut it wasn’t physical — it was emotional.
He had checked out.
Then came the Six Flags photos.
A few people had seen them. One of them messaged me and said:
“Hey, I know you’ve been in a long-term relationship with this guy. It doesn’t seem like you’re in an open relationship, and honestly, it doesn’t seem like you’re that kind of girl. A lot of people know about this. This isn’t the first time he’s done it — he keeps doing it with other girls. I just thought you should know.”
Attached were several pictures.
No face — but I saw his new shoes, his pants, a girl’s legs in shorts, and most of all — his 49ers poncho, worn inside-out. Gray side out, red bleeding through the seams.
I knew instantly. It wasn’t a guess. It wasn’t a hunch. It was him.
When I confronted him, he said:
“Everyone wears those shoes.”
“Those aren’t even the same pants.”
“That’s just a blanket — not the poncho.”
He gaslit me. Hard. Again.
But I had finally come to terms with it.
I messaged the girl:
“Hi, I’m his girlfriend. I just want to know what’s going on.”
She never replied. I blocked her.
Then I told my roommate I was going to confront him — that I’d come to terms with the truth.
That night, Daniel came home. He lay on the bed eating chips.
I said, “We need to talk.”
He sat up. I told him I’d messaged her.
He changed instantly. No more begging. Just cold detachment.
“We’re not good together.”
“I need to be alone.”
“Don’t act like you’ll forgive me if I tell the truth.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
He started packing. I tried to stop him. He ran. I chased him to his car. Blocked it. He hit the gas until I moved. I ran to the window.
“Please talk to me. Please.”
He sneered: “Yeah, right.”
I said: “If you tell me the truth, everything can be okay.”
He snapped: “I’ve heard that before.”
Because I had once told him that’s how I got the truth from my son’s father. He remembered — and he threw it in my face.
He drove off.
After that, I found out he’d been dating her for two months already. While sleeping in my bed. Eating my food. Letting my son call him “dad.”
My son messaged him. Just once.
He never replied.
He didn’t just ghost me. He ghosted a child.
He left his broken car in my garage for over a month like I was his storage unit. He only came back for it when my roommate threatened to tow it.
That day, he hugged me. Kissed my forehead. Told me it was “both our faults.” Blamed me for things I won’t repeat. Tried to make us “even.”
Then he said:
“I didn’t want to give the remote back. It was the only thing that gave me hope.”
“I’m not dead yet.”
“I’ll come back. I’ll talk to your son. I’ll make things right.”
He never came back.
And just this week — almost two years later — I found the letters. The drawings. The Father’s Day notes. All the letters I wrote him.
He used to keep them in his drawer.
Now they were shoved in the laundry room. Hidden.
He didn’t take them.
He left them — like he left us.
He didn’t just break my heart.
He destroyed a child’s sense of safety, and walked away like it meant nothing.
This is my story. It’s messy. It’s ugly. But it’s real.
And I’m done carrying it alone.
