I believed I had married a perfect, faithful man. Thomas was admired at church — leading Bible studies, teaching our children to pray, and never missing a Sunday service. So when he told me he was going on a church camping retreat to “strengthen his faith,” I helped him pack with pride. The next morning, after he left, I went into the garage to fix our son’s bike and froze. Every piece of camping gear sat untouched — the tent, sleeping bag, boots, flashlight — exactly as I had packed them. My heart sank. A text asking for a photo from the trip got a quick reply claiming bad service. When I contacted another church member’s wife, she confirmed there was no retreat. Using a phone-tracking app, I discovered Thomas was in a hotel downtown. I arranged a babysitter, drove there, and knocked on his door.

He opened it wearing a robe, with a young woman behind him laughing in bed. I handed him an envelope containing proof of his lies, photos of the unused camping gear, and a divorce lawyer’s card. Inside the room, his Bible lay on the bedside table beside champagne and lingerie — the final insult. I left without shouting, returned home, and tucked my children into bed, promising them honesty even as I broke inside. By morning, my grief turned into resolve. Faith isn’t shown through church attendance or scripture recitation, but through truth and integrity. I refused to let my children grow up thinking love is a performance and betrayal can hide behind religion. I chose honesty over illusion — and that became my new beginning.