My Husband of Twenty-Five Years Married My Cousin
For twenty-five years, I was the quiet wife and the selfless mother—ironing shirts, folding laundry, and waiting for the day my husband, Bradley, would finally keep the promise he made when we married.
“We never had a wedding,” I reminded him on our twenty-fifth anniversary. “Just papers at city hall. I thought maybe… this year, we could take a cruise. Just the two of us.”
He laughed—sharp and cold.
“A cruise? At your age? Don’t be ridiculous. You should be more like your cousin Maine. She’s smart. Independent. She doesn’t need anyone to fund her silly dreams.”
Maine. My cousin. The woman he once loved. The woman he said wasn’t right for marriage—until now.
That night, I saw it. An email in his inbox. A cruise reservation. A wedding invitation. Maine and my husband.
The invitees? My son. My daughter-in-law. My father.
They all knew. They replaced me.
And they lied—calling it a business trip, saying I wouldn’t understand. That I wasn’t smart enough to be part of it.
So I smiled. I watched them leave in the clothes I had packed for them. Then I changed the locks, blocked their numbers, and filed for divorce.
They didn’t choose me. But this time—I choose myself.
Because after twenty-five years of being silenced, overlooked, and invisible… I’m finally ready to live out loud.
For twenty-five years, I served my husband and my son, forgetting and sacrificing myself. And now on our twenty-fifth anniversary, I thought maybe it was time for me. So, I asked my husband Bradley to fulfill his promise.
"Do you remember what you promised me when we got married?" He didn’t lift his head from his phone. "We never had a wedding, just signed the papers at city hall, and then… life got busy. But this year—it’s our twenty-fifth. I thought maybe… we could go on a cruise. Just the two of us."
He looked at me like I had said something offensive.
"A cruise?" he barked, his eyes narrowing. Then he laughed—sharp and cold. "What for? You're old enough to know better. Cruises aren't for women like you. You don't even have your own money, Joyce. You want to use my money for some stupid luxury when you know the company’s barely holding on because of investor pullouts? Do you even care about me? About what I'm going through?"
His words didn’t shout, but they cut.
"I just..." I whispered, "I just want to enjoy something. Anything. For twenty-five years, I stayed here. You promised me a wedding back then. Maybe this could be the time—"
He cut me off, loud and sharp now.
"Enjoy?" he scoffed. "Are you saying you didn’t enjoy your life for the past twenty-five years? Are you blaming me for how boring it was? You sound ungrateful, Joyce. I worked so hard, and you just stayed here—cleaning, eating, no real stress. Maybe you should be more like your cousin Maine. Now that’s a woman. Smart, successful. Doesn’t rely on anyone for her stupid whims."
My hands were trembling. The glass of water I held slipped and shattered at my feet. I flinched as the shards scattered.
That sound summoned my father, Joseph, from the other room.
"What's wrong with you?" he growled, storming in. "Are you really this useless? You can’t even hold a glass? You know how much that costs? You can’t even pay for your own food, and now you're breaking things?"
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
"You’re the same age as Maine, yet she looks ten years younger. She walks like a woman with purpose. You? You drag your feet like you’re already dead. Honestly, sometimes I wish Maine was my daughter instead of you."
Bradley chuckled awkwardly. "Don’t be too harsh on her, Father. Come on. She’s still your daughter.”
Then he turned to me.
"And you, Joyce, don’t take it seriously. We just want you to… improve. Be more like Maine, maybe."
But my father wasn’t done.
"Improve?" he spat. "There’s no improving her. You said it yourself once, Bradley. You regretted marrying young. You said Maine was the better candidate. And I agreed. But you still married my daughter. And she should be grateful for that every day of her life."
I stood still. Cold. Paralyzed. A tightness wrapped itself around my ribs, squeezing.
I bent down to pick up the shattered glass, but my hands were shaking too much. A sharp edge sliced into my palm, but I didn’t flinch. I watched the blood trail down my wrist, felt it drip onto the tiles.
No one stopped me. They just kept talking. Laughing. Like I wasn’t there.
Bradley’s voice returned, distant and cruel. “Well, Maine is admirable, but Joyce... Joyce is convenient.”
Convenient. Like plastic furniture. Like disposable napkins.
I didn’t speak. What was left to say?
I gathered the broken pieces with both hands now, ignoring the pain. Blood smeared across my fingers. No one offered a towel. No one asked if I was okay.
I went to the sink, turned on the water. It ran red before it ran clear. I stared at my reflection in the kitchen window. Who is she? This tired woman. This fading thing.
Later on, they all went to eat dinner and like a servant, I placed the bowls on the table, one by one. I’d made soup just like what Bradley wanted to eat for tonight.
He took one sip and spat it back in the bowl. "What's this? It tastes like garbage."
Chapter 2
I blinked. My hands trembled as I held the serving spoon.
“I—I’ll change the soup,” I said softly, already reaching for the bowl.
Bradley slammed his spoon down. “Come on, Joyce. If you’re still mad at me because of what I said earlier, this isn’t the right way to take it out. Trying to poison me with that taste? You didn’t even make an effort. That’s your only job.”
Only job. That phrase stayed in the air, louder than his voice.
To them, that’s all it was. Cooking. Cleaning. Washing. Being their shadow. It didn’t matter that I was the first to rise in this house and the last to sleep. It didn’t matter that I raised our son when Bradley worked late or went on “business trips.” I was a housewife, and for them, that meant I wasn’t really contributing. I wasn’t building an empire. I wasn’t earning figures. I was just a woman who washed clothes and waited for orders.
I used to think being here was fulfilling. That staying behind to raise a family and tend to a home was noble. But what did I really raise? A son too busy to visit. A husband who looked at me like I was a liability. A father who never saw me beyond the girl who didn’t measure up to Maine.
And maybe that was the real sin—I let it happen. I chose this life. I allowed myself to disappear in it.
Tears welled up, blurring the sight of the table. My voice cracked as I whispered, “I’ll make a new batch.”
The door suddenly swung open. Click. High heels. A familiar voice.
“Oh! Sorry, did I interrupt something?”
Maine. Of course. Even the sound of her walking in felt expensive. She wore success like a perfume. Confident. Composed. A woman people admired. The daughter my father always wished he had.
“I just came by to drop off some business files,” she said, flashing that smile of hers. “So we can settle things.”
My father stood immediately, like he was summoned. “No, not really. We’re just having dinner.”
Maine’s eyes darted toward the table. “Oh, great. Then, can I eat some? I’m sure it’s amazing. After all, my cousin Joyce cooked it.”
Bradley scoffed. “It’s not, actually. Tastes like nothing. Not a great idea, really.” He pushed the bowl away with a dramatic grimace. “How about we all just go out? Let’s eat somewhere decent. My treat.”
I looked down at my hands. They were still stained with onion from chopping. They reeked of oil.
“Oh, sure,” Maine said brightly. “That sounds fun.”
Father nodded in agreement. “I’ve been craving that grilled seafood place.”
Then Maine turned to me. “Joyce, you’re coming, right?”
I lifted my head, just as Bradley answered for me. “Oh, she’s busy,” he said with a wave of his hand. “She’s got house things to do. She can eat this one, so it won’t go to waste, right? And she’s not into these things anyway. We’re going to talk about business stuff—nothing she’d be interested in.”
Nothing I’d be interested in. As if I didn’t want to leave this house even once. As if I didn’t want to eat something warm and served to me instead of cold leftovers.
Maine hesitated, but then smiled again. “Okay then. I’ll just bring you some food from the restaurant, cousin. Something nice, alright?”
They left in laughter. They didn’t even say goodbye.
I stood there. Alone in a dining room that smelled of disappointment and burnt soup.
I sat down and tasted the very same bowl Bradley spat in. It was bland. Too much water, too little salt. I messed up. But not because I wanted to hurt him. I just... I just couldn’t taste anything anymore.
I looked around the house I spent twenty-five years serving. The walls I repainted myself. The furniture I cleaned. The floors I mopped on my knees. The clothes I ironed. The birthdays I planned. The Christmases I decorated.
And yet I wasn’t a wife. I wasn’t a partner.
I was their help.
Their convenience.
And that realization hurt more than anything.
I forced myself to finish the soup. I cleaned the table. I washed the dishes. I wiped the counter.
I folded the napkins like I always did. Then I went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed we used to share, the one that now felt too wide, too cold.
I pressed my hand to my chest and whispered, “I chose this.”
I let them shape me into what they wanted.
I let myself disappear. But maybe—just maybe—I didn’t have to stay this way.
Maybe I could still find pieces of who I used to be.
Before I became invisible. And as the sound of their laughter echoed from the driveway, I finally allowed myself to cry—loud and unashamed—for the woman I once was, and the woman I might still be.
Chapter 3
I quietly rolled out of bed and walked straight to the cabinet in the corner of our room—my little sanctuary. It was where I kept the few things that were mine. Not the house, not the kitchen, not the endless chores or errands I did for the family—but the small luxuries I saved up for with my own money.
The makeup I had finally bought last week after five long years of selling flowers from my garden was gone.
My heart skipped. I opened and closed every drawer, checked the boxes twice. Gone. All of it.
I rushed into the living room where Bradley sat on the couch, his eyes glued to the documents in his hands, probably something about the company again.
“Bradley,” I said as calmly as I could, “Did you see the makeup I kept in the cabinet?”
He didn’t even look up. “Ah, those? I gave them to Maine. She sealed that big deal with the Japanese investors, thought she deserved something nice.”
My breath caught. “You… gave them to her?” My voice shook. “That was mine. I just bought that.”
He finally looked up, chuckling like it was some sort of joke. “Bought it? Joyce, come on. Why would you buy makeup? It’s not like you’re going anywhere. You’re too old for those things.”
“Bradley—”
“No, really.” He smirked. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? Be honest with yourself. It doesn’t suit you anymore. But Maine? Now she’s different. She works hard, she deserves it.”
“It was mine!” I yelled, my hands trembling. “I bought it with my own money!”
He rolled his eyes. “Own money? What are you talking about? All the money you use comes from me, Joyce. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
My lips parted, but the words couldn’t come out. In my heart, I screamed. It was from the flowers I sold. I tended that garden with blistered hands and sunburned skin. I saved every dollar, every coin for five years.
Not once did I ask him for a cent for anything that wasn’t for the house or the family. I knew he’d see it as a burden. So I didn’t. I waited. I worked. And now it was gone—given to someone else as if I didn’t matter.
He leaned back with a sigh. “Stop whining. I’ll just get you something else, okay?”
“You really don’t care about me,” I whispered.
Bradley frowned. “You’re being dramatic. Come on, be considerate for once. Maine practically saved the company, Joyce. She deserves some appreciation. You wouldn’t understand—you don’t know a thing about business. So stop overreacting and start cooking. I’m starving.”
His voice stung like a slap.
I turned to walk away, feeling like my chest was about to shatter into a thousand pieces.
“By the way,” he added lazily, “I’ll be gone. Business trip. One week. So you can take a little break from taking care of me.”
I said nothing and walked into the kitchen. I cooked. Again. Just like always.
Later that afternoon, our son arrived with his wife. I smiled automatically, like I was supposed to. Like a painting that no one bothered to repaint.
While eating, they talked excitedly about the upcoming trip.
“It’s gonna be beautiful,” my daughter-in-law said. “A cruise ship. Top deck. Fancy dinners. Hot springs. Can’t wait!”
“I thought it was a business trip,” I murmured.
“Oh, well, business and pleasure,” my son added quickly. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll take home something nice for you. A souvenir or two!”
“A magnet would be nice,” I joked weakly. My laughter came out hollow.
My father, sitting beside me, shook his head. “If only you knew more about business, you could join.”
I nodded and smiled again. Pretending didn't even hurt anymore—it was just numb.
That night, I was folding Bradley’s clothes for the trip. His laptop, still open, buzzed softly with a notification.
I glanced. Then froze.
The screen showed an email confirmation for the cruise. A luxury getaway package. Couples’ massages. Candlelight dinners. Honeymoon suite.
I blinked. Honeymoon?
I opened the attached documents with a trembling hand. An invitation.
A wedding invitation.
Maine. And Bradley.
My knees buckled. I dropped into the chair, hands shaking as the names on the glossy page glared back at me.
Maine and Bradley. You are cordially invited to celebrate our union aboard the St. Clarisse Luxury
It wasn’t just a trip. It was a betrayal. It was a celebration. Everyone knew. My son. My father. The people I cooked for, cleaned for, cared for. The people I stayed behind for.
And none of them said a word.
My vision blurred as tears spilled freely. Not because of the makeup. Not because of the trip.
But because I gave them my life. My time. My love. My everything.
And it meant nothing.
I covered my mouth and wept silently in the dark, while outside the house, laughter echoed down the halls as the people I loved planned their future—without me.
Chapter 4
"Joyce," he said once, voice low and intimate, his arm lazily wrapped around my shoulder, "I know you’d take care of me better than anyone, even Maine. I love her, yes, I want her, but she’d choose her career over me any day. You—Joyce, you’re the type who’d serve, who’d stay. And for that, I’ll give you the best life you could imagine."
I believed him. Like a fool, I believed him. I let him register our marriage. No ceremony. No friends. No flowers. Just two signatures on cold, government-issued paper and a promise I etched into my heart like scripture. I was in love. So painfully in love. But now I see it—he never chose me. I was never the first. I was the fallback. The safe place to land when Maine took off for her ambitions.
And now? I was just… the maid who shared his last name.
The next day, not a single soul in the house asked if I had slept well. No one noticed my red-rimmed eyes or the tremble in my hands as I poured coffee. Instead, the living room buzzed with laughter and shallow excitement.
The scent of fresh fabric filled the air as designer bags lay scattered over the couch. I stood silently, hands clasped together, watching them marvel over their outfits like it was the most important day of their lives.
My son turned to me, grinning wide. “Mom, guess what? We’re attending a wedding on the cruise, aside from the business trip or course! Isn’t that amazing? It’s gonna be such a big event!”
I blinked, pretending not to know whose wedding it would be. “A wedding?”
Maine was standing near him, holding up a white dress against her body, checking herself in the hallway mirror.
I frowned, curious. “Who’s getting married? Why can’t I come with you?”
My father scoffed as if I’d asked something ridiculous. “You’re staying here to take care of the house, of course. And since when are you interested in these things? It’s someone from Bradley’s business circle, nothing related to you.”
I forced a smile. A pathetic little curve of my lips. “Of course.”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” my son added, chuckling, “We’ll bring back lots of souvenirs. I know you love those herbal oils from duty-free.”
Maine giggled behind him, and said, "We'll just send photos, so you will be updated."
My chest tightened.
Bradley, appearing from the hallway in a tailored shirt, tossed a pile of clothes into my arms. “Here. Iron these. And be careful—they’re expensive.”
The morning of their departure, the house was loud with perfume, zipped luggages, and last-minute instructions. I stood in the corner, quietly folding last-minute scarves, fixing collars, adjusting buttons. My role was clear: the background woman. Invisible until something went wrong.
A shriek from the hallway. “My dress!” Maine cried out. “There’s a hole in it!”
Everyone rushed in. The white dress—elegant, pristine, absurdly expensive—had a tiny tear near the hem. But it was enough to ruin her morning.
Bradley turned, eyes blazing. “Joyce! What the heck did you do?”
“I—I didn’t do anything. I sent it to the shop, just like the others. They must’ve—”
“I told you to handle it, not strangers! Why would you let someone else touch her dress? Are you going to pay for this?!”
“I— I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Maine said gently, stepping in like a peacekeeper. “Don’t be mad at her. She’s your wife.”
Bradley scoffed. “Yeah. My useless wife.”
He turned away from me without another glance, wrapping an arm around Maine’s shoulder. “Let’s go get you another one. We’ll be late if we don’t leave now.”
He threw the dress at me. I stood frozen. As they gathered their luggage, laughing and chatting about the events on the cruise, I stared at the empty doorway. They didn’t even look back. Not one.
Chapter 5
Maine: Joyce, I’m sorry. The shop already apologized. You shouldn’t have been blamed for the dress. Please don’t think too much about it.”
I read it once. Then twice. Did she mean it? Or was it just a bandage for a wound she helped create? A soft message to wash away the image of Bradley shoving me, of everyone turning their backs while I stood in shock, humiliated?
Before I could decide, another message arrived.
Bradley: I left the black card on the kitchen counter. Buy anything you want today since you’ll be alone for one week.
I nearly laughed.
This was how it always went with him. First the fury, the blame, the cruelty—and then, the guilt gift. The apology disguised as permission to spend his money. As if a new dress or a bag could undo the things he said. The things he did. I could almost hear his voice in my head: Here, buy yourself something. Now smile like a good girl.
I didn’t respond. I just stared at their names—Maine and Bradley—and in one swift, final movement, I deleted both messages and blocked their numbers.
Later that day, I decided to step outside. I put on the dress Bradley once said looked “too loud” and the lipstick he told me “made me look old.” I wore both. Proudly.
I had a little money stashed away—hidden savings he never cared to know about. I clutched my small bag and walked into the city like I had somewhere to be, even if it was just a place where I could breathe.
There was this café I had passed a hundred times before. Every time I hinted I wanted to try them, Bradley would shut it down.
“Cake? Again? You already look like you’ve had enough,” he’d say, always with that half-smirk, as if it were a joke I was supposed to laugh at.
But I’d seen him offer the same cake to Maine once, all sweet smiles and soft hands. I didn’t say a word back then.
But today, I walked straight in and ordered the most expensive cake they had, the one with gold flakes and berries that looked like tiny rubies. I sat by the window and took a bite.
It was sweet. It was light. It was mine.
As I ate, I opened my phone, just to scroll, to pass the time. And that’s when I saw it—Celia’s post. One of our closest friends, or so I thought. I tapped the video.
There it was. The cruise. The wedding.
Bradley in a suit, Maine glowing in white. My son clapping, my family cheering. People I cooked for, cared for, bent over backwards for—all smiling like I never existed.
They knew. Every single one of them knew.
I watched as the video showed them toasting champagne, laughing. Bradley placing a kiss on Maine’s forehead. My father standing proudly beside them. I was the shadow they had brushed off, swept under the rug while they built their new life in plain sight.
My hands trembled. The fork slipped onto the plate.
My marriage was never sacred to anyone. Not even paper. Just a convenience. A placeholder. A favor until the real bride came along.
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and stood.
No one chose me. Not a single soul in that room remembered who I was to them. But today, I would choose myself.
I walked out of the café and straight into the boutique across the street. The kind of place I never allowed myself to enter because I thought I didn’t belong. But today, I did.
A young woman greeted me at the door. “Looking for anything special, ma’am?”
“Yes,” I said, steady and sure. “I want to try on a wedding dress.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Your wedding?”
“Yes.” My voice didn’t shake. “Mine.”
She smiled politely, guiding me through rows of gowns—silks and lace and beads. I tried on a few, letting the fabric hug me where I once felt empty. And then I found it—the one. Simple, elegant, not screaming for attention, just me.
I stepped in front of the mirror and stared at the reflection. I didn’t see someone broken. I didn’t see someone abandoned.
I saw someone whole.
I asked her to take a photo of me in the dress, and as I held the printed picture in my hands, I smiled—not for them. For me. This was my moment.
I paid for the dress in cash.
And as I stepped out of the boutique, I pulled out my phone and made a call I should’ve made long ago.
It rang once. Twice.
I took a deep breath.
“Hi,” I said. “I’d like to file for divorce.”
And just like that, I chose myself.
Chapter 6
The call to the lawyer was easier than I thought it would be. The words didn’t catch in my throat this time. I said them clearly: “I’d like to file for divorce.”
And once I did, it was like something inside me clicked. Like I had finally turned the key to a cage I didn’t realize I’d locked myself in.
I went home to an empty house. Quiet, as always, but it no longer felt suffocating. It felt like a space ready to be reclaimed. Mine, even if temporarily.
I made my way to the storage room—the little dusty corner Bradley called "the junk closet." But it wasn’t junk. Not to me.
I opened the boxes one by one, gently lifting each painting like I was holding pieces of my younger self. A girl who once dreamed with colors. Who used to paint by the window with the light pouring in, humming to herself, completely unaware that her future would be silenced by a man who told her painting was a waste of time.
"It won’t put food on the table, Joyce," he’d said. "It’s useless. Focus on what matters. Be a wife."
So I stopped. I folded my dreams and hid them in these boxes, just like I hid parts of myself. But I never stopped completely. Between laundry and vacuuming, in the quiet hours before dawn, I would still paint. Sometimes with tears in my eyes, sometimes with a quiet fire in my chest. And I posted them anonymously online. Sold a few here and there. Enough to save. Enough to hope.
Now, I unwrapped those canvases and laid them out on the floor, one by one. I had forgotten how beautiful they were—how alive I felt when I made them.
That afternoon, I called Lorenzo.
He answered on the second ring. “Joyce?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m ready.”
There was a pause, and then his voice lit up like fireworks. “Are you serious? Joyce, this is incredible! I’ve been waiting for this day. My gallery has the perfect space for you. Say the word, and it’s yours.”
“I want it,” I said. “I’m done hiding.”
After I packed and carefully delivered the best pieces to the gallery, I returned home with stained fingers and a full heart. For the first time in years, I had done something for me. Something that didn’t involve scrubbing someone else’s shoes or fixing dinner while they laughed in another room.
I sat on my bed and browsed through the internet. Just killing time. Until I saw it.
A post from my son. A photo.
There he was—smiling beside Maine, arm casually draped over her shoulder like she was already his stepmother. My father stood behind them, Bradley beside him. A happy family photo. And I was nowhere in it.
Rage prickled at the base of my neck. Not sorrow—rage.
I leaned in, reading the caption:
"Grateful for these people. My strongest support system."
Support system? The same people who let me rot in silence? The same people who celebrated a wedding built on betrayal? So, what am I to them?
I stared at the screen and whispered to myself, “In just a few weeks… I’ll be gone. And you’ll never be able to hurt me again.”
That night, I did something that would have made Bradley lose his mind.
I wore the red dress he told me was “too tight, too loud, too attention-seeking.” The one I had kept hidden in the back of the closet because it made me feel beautiful. I did my makeup using the make-up I bought just today after he had given the other one to Maine.
And I walked into a bar downtown. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was alive. Music buzzed softly in the air, people danced and laughed, and the scent of wine and freedom clung to the air.
I sat at the bar, ordered a glass of red, and for once, I didn’t care what anyone thought.
Halfway through my second sip, my phone began to ring.
Unknown number. Then again. And again.
I sighed and let it go to voicemail. But then the texts started pouring in.
“What's happening? Why aren’t you answering? Why am I blocked? Joyce, really? Are you still being dramatic? I said I was sorry. I even let you have fun—gave you freedom! What more do you want? Where are you?”
I stared at the screen, calm as ever. There he was again—trying to regain control. Not because he missed me, but because he couldn’t stand not having access to me. Couldn’t stand that I’d stopped dancing to his mood swings.
I took another sip of wine, smirked to myself, then opened the camera. With the bar behind me—its neon signs glowing like rebellion—I snapped a photo of myself. My glass raised, a half-smile on my lips, eyes clear and untouchable.
I sent it as a post, public. No tags. Just a caption: Oh, what a wonderful night to dance and drink!
