For over ten years, Sundays were our special time—not tied to any faith, just slow mornings filled with pancakes and cartoons. So when my husband suddenly wanted us to attend church every weekend, I never dreamed the real motive would shatter our whole life.
Maver and I had been a couple for twelve years, married for ten. Faith wasn’t something we ever pursued. We’d never set foot in a church together—not even for holidays or our own wedding. That wasn’t our style at all.
I do marketing for a nonprofit organization, while Maver handles finance for big corporate clients. Our routine was full, predictable, and completely average. We share a daughter, Haven, who just celebrated her ninth birthday.
Sundays in our house were reserved for rest—sleeping in, flipping pancakes, watching cartoons, and maybe a quick grocery trip if we got motivated. It was our cozy family habit, our little slice of calm.
When Maver offhandedly suggested we try church, I assumed it was a joke. It wasn’t.
“Wait a minute,” I said, cocking my head. “You actually mean sitting through a full service?”
“Yeah,” he replied, focused on his breakfast plate. “I think it might help us. Kind of a reset button.”
I burst out laughing. “You? The same guy who called a church ceremony ‘a hostage situation with free cake’? And now you’re pushing for weekly attendance?”
He offered a small grin, though it never touched his eyes.
“People evolve, Emme. Lately I’ve felt buried under pressure. Exhausted. Work keeps piling up. I just need a space to catch my breath.”
I observed him carefully. His shoulders were rigid, and he’d been tossing at night more than usual.
I figured it might fade quickly. But then he added with real conviction, “Being there actually lifts me up. The messages are encouraging. Plus, it could be something positive we share as a family—some sense of connection.”
I didn’t want to squash what looked like a positive outlet. So, almost overnight, church replaced our old Sunday pattern.
The first time we got dressed and went, I felt like an outsider. The building was attractive and spotless, and the congregation was surprisingly warm.
We claimed spots in the fourth row—Maver clearly knew his preferred place. Haven scribbled on a children’s program while I gazed at the colorful windows, silently guessing how temporary this would be.
Maver appeared relaxed. He followed the sermon with nods and even closed his eyes for the prayer, as though it were second nature.
The pattern held week after week: same building, same pew. He’d exchange handshakes, flash smiles, linger to talk with greeters, and pitch in with the offering baskets.
At the start it seemed tolerable. Before long I decided it was strange but innocent enough.
Then one Sunday, as we prepared to leave after service, Maver said in the parking lot, “Hang out in the car. I just need the restroom real quick.”
Ten minutes dragged on. Calls and texts went unanswered.
Haven waited beside me by the car, asking when we could head home. An uneasy twist settled in my gut—the quiet alarm that something’s wrong before you can name it.
I approached a woman I recognized—Sister Marianne—and asked if she’d mind Haven for a short time. She smiled gently, took my daughter’s hand, and started chatting about treats while I hurried back indoors.
The men’s restroom stood empty.
As I came back into the corridor, I noticed him through an open window at the hallway’s end. He stood in the church garden speaking with a woman completely unfamiliar to me.
She was tall with blonde hair, in a cream sweater and pearl necklace—the sort who might lead community groups or book discussions.
Her arms crossed firmly. Maver spoke energetically, hands moving, closing the distance more than I found acceptable.
The window sat slightly ajar, welcoming the breeze—and delivering every single word.
“Do you realize what I’ve done?” Maver’s tone was hushed yet edged with emotion. “I brought my family right here… to show you exactly what slipped away when you chose to leave.”
Ice ran through me.
“We had the chance for it all,” he pressed on. “A genuine home, extra children, the complete setup. Us together. If the ideal life—the house, the Sunday services—was what you needed, I’m prepared now. Whatever it takes.”
I remained motionless, breath held, witnessing the breakdown of everything we’d built.
Her response arrived measured, calm with an underlying steel.
“I pity your wife,” she stated. “And your daughter. They’re stuck with you as their husband and father.”
Maver recoiled as though struck.
She continued without pause. “Hear me clearly once: this will never happen. Cease all contact. Whatever fixation you’ve nursed since high school isn’t romance—it’s unsettling, straight-up stalker behavior.”
He attempted to speak. She lifted her palm to silence him.
“One more attempt to reach me, and I’ll pursue a restraining order. You’ll stay far from me and anyone close to me.”
She turned and left, never glancing behind.
Maver remained planted, shoulders drooping, defeated as his illusion dissolved before him.
I retreated from the window as though it scorched my skin.
I have no clear memory of reaching the car. Haven was happily talking, untouched by the chaos ripping through me. I expressed thanks to Marianne, secured Haven in her seat, and took the wheel without a word.
Maver appeared minutes later, settled in beside me, and planted a kiss on Haven’s forehead as if the day remained ordinary.
“Apologies for the delay,” he remarked. “Bathroom was backed up.”
I gave a nod and forced a smile.
On the drive home, certainty grew that I required confirmation this wasn’t a misheard moment. I refused to allow a misunderstanding to ruin us. So I chose patience.
The Sunday after, we prepared as though normalcy held. Maver assisted Haven with her jacket, opened my door, whistled lightly in the car—like a man whose reality wasn’t constructed on deception.
We returned to our usual row. He laughed at the pastor’s humor. I remained quiet, muscles taut.
When service concluded, he announced, “Stay put. Bathroom run.”
This time I acted immediately.
I located the blonde near the refreshments, approached directly. She stood by herself, mixing sugar into her cup.
Our eyes locked; her face transformed entirely.
“Hello,” I said gently. “I believe we should speak. I’m Maver’s wife.”
She gave one nod and walked with me to a more private area. Her jaw set firm; exhaustion marked her more than surprise.
“I caught the entire conversation last week,” I explained. “The garden window stood open. I hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, yet I did.”
She held silent initially, regarding me with sympathy mixed with dismay.
“I’m lost about the situation,” I continued, steadying my tone. “But I can’t return home and ignore what reached my ears. I require the complete picture.”
She exhaled, retrieved her phone, and unlocked the screen.
“I’m Maddy,” she told me. “And none of this is in your imagination.”
She navigated to her messages and extended the device.
Conversations spanned years—some pleading, some heated, some resembling desperate verse from someone yearning for notice. Nearly all remained without reply.
Among the newer exchanges, from weeks prior, came a snapshot of the church entrance with his caption: “I see you. I know where you attend now.”
My throat tightened.
“He discovered my presence from a single Facebook picture,” she described. “Just me with a friend at the doors. The following Sunday, he appeared—family in tow, seated directly behind.”
“This pursuit began when we were seventeen. College letters, appearances at my initial Portland job. I relocated twice, switched numbers. He persisted in locating me.”
I returned the phone as though it carried poison.
“I’m truly sorry,” I murmured.
“No,” she countered, gaze hardening. “I’m the one who’s sorry. That man poses real risk, despite appearances.”
Silence settled between us. Shame flooded me while she observed it unfold.
“I must safeguard my daughter,” I stated. “Thank you for this.”
She dipped her head slightly. “Protect yourself. He’s skilled at reframing reality.”
I made my way back to Haven—Maver had already joined her, behaving casually. I maintained a smile, yet my thoughts spun wildly, limbs chilled, fingers unsteady.
Sleep evaded me that night. Every shared instant replayed: laughter, disagreements, celebrations, quiet goodnights. Suddenly they rang hollow—or worse, staged for an audience of one.
It went beyond pursuing someone else. I’d never truly been his goal. I’d served as scenery, a device to construct his desired image.
The evening following, once Haven slept, I perched on our bed’s edge observing Maver enter—hoodie gray, shorts loose, thumbing through his phone as though routine persisted.
“Hey,” he greeted, eyes down. “All okay?”
I held his gaze. My tone remained level.
“I know the reality.”
He stiffened. “Know what?”
“Church. Maddy. Everything.”
Color left his face briefly, then he chuckled dismissively. “Emme, what on earth are you referring to?”
“You understand perfectly,” I replied. “I overheard you in the garden last week.”
His gaze sharpened. “You tailed me?”
“I searched for you,” I answered. “You claimed bathroom. You weren’t there. I heard it all.”
His lips parted, then sealed.
“I know you declared your love to her,” I pressed. “That you hauled us here to flaunt what she’d forfeited. And she rejected you outright—labeled you obsessive.”
A spark of irritation pierced his usual composure.
“You’ve taken it wrong,” he began.
“It’s precisely as it appears,” I interrupted, tension rising. “I confronted her. Viewed the history, the images. This spans years.”
He drew nearer. “Emme, seriously. A decade of marriage. Haven. That’s distant past.”
“Distant?” I echoed. “You reached out to her recently!”
He gulped.
“You kissed our daughter moments after vowing to abandon us for her.”
“Nothing came of it,” he hurried. “She turned me down.”
“That’s your justification?” I questioned. “Her refusal?”
He went quiet.
I drew a steady breath and rose to face him directly.
“Divorce documents arrive from my attorney this week.”
His features contorted. “Emme, wait—we can repair this!”
“No, Maver,” I said, regarding the person I’d once envisioned aging beside. “Repairing something false from the start isn’t possible. You exploited Haven and me. I won’t allow our daughter to accept this version of love.”
He dropped onto the mattress, dazed—as if accountability had never occurred to him.
“What should I say to her?” he inquired.
I moved toward the exit.
“Tell her the facts,” I responded. “Then demonstrate accountability.”
Stepping into the hallway, Haven’s soft nightlight painted gentle patterns. I stopped at her doorway and looked in. She slept soundly, ignorant of the upheaval.
Observing her steady breaths, sorrow transformed into something more powerful: resolve.
Maver’s actions lay beyond my control, but the path forward did not.
Never again would I permit being used as a means to someone else’s dream.