I am a stay-at-home mom. Over a year ago, I left my career to care for our three-year-old daughter, who is autistic and needs a lot of support. Recently, I’ve noticed my usually feminist husband has been slamming me in a group chat.

Being a stay-at-home mom (SAHM) wasn’t a role I ever envisioned for myself. I used to thrive in the bustling world of marketing, surrounded by campaigns and coffee-fueled brainstorming sessions. But that all changed a little over a year ago when my husband, Jake, and I made a life-altering decision. Our daughter, Lily, who is three and autistic, needed more than what her daycare could offer. Her needs are complex, requiring constant attention and support, and it became clear that one of us needed to be with her full-time.

I won’t lie — saying goodbye to my career was one of the hardest things I’ve done. I miss the independence of earning my own money and the satisfaction that comes from a job well done. But here I am, filling my days with meal planning, cooking, and baking. I’ve found joy in these tasks, and experimenting in the kitchen has become my new canvas for creativity.

Our backyard has transformed into a small garden sanctuary under my care, and I handle the majority of the cleaning. Jake does his fair share too; he’s hands-on when it comes to chores and parenting whenever he’s home. We’ve always operated as a team, shunning traditional gender roles, or at least that’s what I thought until last week.

It was just another Thursday, and I was vacuuming Jake’s home office while he was at work. It’s a space filled with tech gadgets and piles of paperwork, typical for a software developer. His computer screen caught my eye — it was still on, glowing softly against the dim light of the room. He usually left it on by accident, but what I saw next was no accident.

His Twitter feed was open, and I froze when I saw the hashtag #tradwife attached to a tweet. Confusion washed over me as I read the post. It boasted about the joys of having a traditional wife who takes pride in her domestic roles. Attached was a photo of me, pulling a tray of cookies out of the oven, looking every bit the part of a 1950s housewife. My stomach churned as I scrolled through more posts. There I was again, gardening and reading to Lily, our faces thankfully hidden.

This was Jake’s account, and he had been crafting a whole narrative about our life that was a stark departure from the truth. He painted a picture of me as a woman who delighted in her role as a homemaker, happily trading her career for aprons and storybooks. The reality of our situation — that this arrangement was born out of necessity for our daughter’s well-being — was nowhere to be found.

I felt betrayed. Here was the man I’d loved and trusted for over a decade, sharing our life with strangers under a guise that felt alien to me. It wasn’t just the lies about our dynamics that stung — it was also the realization that he was using these snippets of our lives to bolster some online persona.

I turned the computer off, my hands shaking with a cocktail of anger and confusion. All day, I wrestled with my emotions, trying to understand why Jake would do this. Was he unhappy with our arrangement? Did he resent me for staying home? Or was it something else, something deeper about how he saw me now that I wasn’t bringing in a paycheck?

The rest of the day passed in a blur. His posts kept cycling through my thoughts, and eventually, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I decided to call him up to confront him about it all.

“Jake, we need to talk,” I finally said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He answered, concern obvious in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath, the weight of my discovery anchoring my resolve. “I saw your Twitter today…”

His face fell, and he let out a long sigh, the kind that said he knew exactly what this conversation was about to be. He breathed in to respond, and I braced myself for what was to come.

“Calm down,” he told me, dismissing it all as “just silly posting.” That was the last straw. I told him I wanted a divorce, called him a creep, and hung up.

Jake came home immediately. We argued, but with Lily’s strict routine, I couldn’t let the conflict drag on. He pleaded with me to have a proper conversation after our daughter went to bed. Reluctantly, I agreed. That night, he showed me his phone, the Twitter account now deleted. But the damage was done.

A week passed, and my anger hadn’t subsided. This wasn’t a simple misunderstanding. This was a betrayal. Jake tried to explain, claiming it all started as a joke, that he got carried away with the attention it brought him. But excuses only went so far.

Fueled by a mix of hurt and the need for some form of justice, I decided to expose him. I took screenshots of his tweets and posted them on my Facebook page. I wanted our friends and family to see the truth. My post was pointed: “Your husband insults you in front of his friends behind your back. Familiar with that?”

The backlash was immediate. Our relatives were shocked, and the comments flooded in. Jake was bombarded with messages and calls. He left work early one more time to beg for my forgiveness. He knelt, tears in his eyes, pleading that it was just a “stupid game.”

But I couldn’t let it go. The trust that had bound the two of us together was severed. It wasn’t just about a few misguided posts; it was about the respect and understanding we were supposed to have for each other. I told him I needed space to think and to heal, and I moved out with Lily to another apartment.

For six months, Jake asked for forgiveness. He sent messages, left voicemails, tried to show in small ways that he was sorry. But sorry wasn’t enough. I told him that if he truly wanted to make things right, we needed to start over from scratch. As far as I was concerned, we were strangers now, and he had to date me like he once had, years ago, when we first met.

So, we began again, slowly. We went on dates, starting with coffee, and eventually moving to dinners. We talked a lot — about everything except the past. It was like piecing together a puzzle, finding out who we were now, separately and together. Jake was patient, perhaps understanding this was his last chance to salvage what had once been a loving partnership.

As I sit here now, reflecting on the past year, I realize how much I’ve changed as well. This betrayal forced me to reevaluate not only my marriage but also myself and my needs. I’ve learned that forgiveness isn’t just about accepting an apology; it’s about feeling secure and valued again. It’s a slow process, one that we’re both committed to, step by step.

How would you have dealt with my husband? Let us know on Facebook.