I was using my husband’s laptop one afternoon, just trying to print a document, when a notification popped up—a dating site. I assumed it was an ad until curiosity got the better of me.
I clicked.
It was a full profile. Messages to multiple women. And one line that stopped my breath completely:
“My wife is dead. I’m looking for love.”
Dead. My husband had declared me dead.
Nine years of marriage collapsed in an instant. Our vows, our routines, our quiet mornings—suddenly they felt unreal. I didn’t confront him. I froze. Instead, I quietly contacted a lawyer, changed passwords, checked finances, and began planning my exit. I barely spoke to him. He noticed. I didn’t care.
Then a few days later, he came home smiling—with a man beside him.
“Babe,” he said, “this is Greg.”
Greg looked nervous. Kind. Familiar somehow.
My husband explained: Greg’s wife had died two years earlier. After months of grief, Greg wanted to try dating but had no idea how apps worked. So my husband helped him—setting up the profile, sending messages, managing everything.
Every message I’d read wasn’t my husband’s.
Including: “My wife is dead.”
Greg spoke softly about his fear of starting over, and my certainty shattered. I had almost destroyed my marriage without asking a single question.
That day, I learned a painful truth:
Sometimes the deepest wounds don’t come from betrayal—but from the assumptions we make in silence.
