I thought my husband Mark and I were unshakable. Seven years of marriage, one miracle daughter after years of failed attempts — we were “that couple.” Or so I believed.

At his promotion party, our four-year-old tugged my sleeve and whispered: “Mommy, that’s the lady with the worms. I saw them on her bed.” She pointed at Tina — a woman from Mark’s office. My heart stopped.

Later, Sophie admitted Daddy told her not to tell me because I’d be “upset.” When I confronted him, Mark fumbled excuses. That was all I needed to know.

I met Tina for coffee, and she confirmed it: they’d been sneaking around. Mark planned to leave once I was “out of the way.” I told her she could have him.

Weeks later, I quietly filed for divorce. Mark didn’t even fight — he moved in with Tina right away. Now, Sophie refuses to visit when Tina’s there, and I hear their arguments are constant.

Me? I’m free. I sleep better, laugh louder, and pour all my love into Sophie. One night, she hugged me and said: “I’m glad we have no worms.”

So am I, baby. So am I.