I was using my husband’s laptop one ordinary afternoon, trying to print a document, when a notification popped up from a dating site. At first, I thought it was an ad — until I clicked it.
There it was: a full profile with messages to multiple women.
Then I saw the worst line of all:
“My wife is dead. I’m looking for love.”
Dead. My husband had declared me dead.
Nine years of marriage flashed before me, suddenly feeling like a lie. I didn’t confront him. Instead, I contacted a lawyer the next morning and began planning an escape — changing passwords, checking finances, imagining life without him. I grew cold and distant, barely speaking to him.
A few days later, he came home with someone.
“Babe, this is Greg,” he said. “You’re going to love him.”
I stood there, numb, as Greg nervously explained that his wife had passed away two years ago. He had finally decided to try dating again but didn’t understand modern apps — so he asked my husband for help setting up a profile.
Every message. Every photo.
Even “My wife is dead.”
The profile wasn’t my husband’s — it was Greg’s.
I had nearly destroyed my marriage without asking a single question.
Sometimes the deepest wounds don’t come from betrayal — but from assumptions we make in silence.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events.
