When I Caught My Sister Having an Affair With My Husband, My Mom Said Sisters Can Share

I grew up in an extended family. My parents separated when I was four, and my mother, unable to raise me alone in the city, took me to the village and left me with her elder brother and his family. From that moment on, my uncle became the only father I knew, and his wife became my mother in every way that mattered. They treated me as one of their own. My cousins were my siblings: five older than me, and a last-born who arrived when I was six. That was my family. That was my world.

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I grew up, finished high school, got into university, graduated, found a job, and settled down. By 25, I had a stable career, was engaged, and was expecting my first child. Life was moving fast and in the right direction. But not for everyone. Most of my cousins dropped out of school early. The girls got pregnant young. It hurt me deeply, so I buried myself in books and made it my mission to beat poverty. I also took it upon myself to mentor the youngest, the only one younger than me. I wanted her to have a different story.

She was 19 when she came to live with me in the city. I had just gotten married and had my first child, but I invited her in so we could work on her college applications. I wanted to be her role model, I wanted her to see me and yearn for more for herself. She stayed with us through college, got a job, and moved into an apartment nearby. We kept a close relationship, or so I thought. She was part of every celebration, watched over my son, joined us for Sunday lunches, and was adored by everyone. To me, she was a sister. To my children, their best aunty. To my friends, my blood. But to my husband; she was the mistress.

The woman I called my sister was the other woman in my husband’s life. And I didn’t find out until 12 years had passed. Twelve years of betrayal, right under my nose.

When the truth hit, it wasn’t heartbreak: it was something else. I vomited, had diarrhoea for days, passed out, and suffered panic attacks, body pains, shivering. I couldn’t hold a spoon for months. I became completely incapacitated. This was the woman I carried on my back as a child, the baby I watched over while the older ones went to the farm. I helped her through school, typed her first CV, prepared her for interviews, took her in during COVID when she lost her job. She was my next of kin on every document. She was the person I trusted with my children and everything I owned.

And she watched me suffer for 12 years. All this while, she was the other woman

I doubted God. I asked how He could let me pour love into someone who was pouring poison into my life. They say the worst part of being stabbed in the back is turning around and seeing who’s holding the knife. I built, protected, and beautified my own bomb, and it detonated with precision.

That was my first death.

I found out three years ago. My real mother and the father of this devil were already gone, but her mother, the woman who raised me, was still alive. I drove to her house like a madwoman, screaming. I told her everything, hoping for comfort. Instead, she looked me in the eye and said, “Even sisters can marry the same man.” Her next words I won’t repeat. But that day, my tears dried. My heart stopped for the second time. I looked at my late uncle’s portrait on the wall, the one I had made myself, and begged it to speak. That day, I lost the only family I had.

That was my second death.

She told her children I was speaking ill of their sister. The people I called siblings turned against me. My therapist jokes that maybe I imagined this family into being when they didn’t exist. Maybe she’s right.

Five months later, I found out she was pregnant. A few months after that, she gave birth.

That was my third death.

But nothing broke me more than what happened next. A year ago, my eldest son, now 15, who had watched me spiral into depression, found out the truth. He had been researching why I was always sick, always crying, always missing work. He discovered everything. And now, he’s battling his own depression. He’s angry, rebellious, and broken. He told me he wishes he didn’t have to wait until 18 to disappear. He loved his aunty. He thought she was my biological sister. And his father was supposed to be the answer to everything. How do you fix a boy whose first lesson in love is betrayal?

That was my fourth death.

He blames me for choosing “the devil” as his father. And even though I try to teach him grace and forgiveness, deep down, I know he’s right. Somewhere along the way, I knew I married wrong.

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No, I won’t talk about my husband today. But I will say this: when you choose a husband, you’re also choosing a father for your children.

It’s been three years. If you’re looking for a happy ending, there isn’t one yet. But I’m alive. I’m out of depression. I’m healing. My son is still struggling, but he has me, he has God, and he’s in therapy.

I won’t give you a moral. Just know this happened to a young, beautiful, hardworking, kind, loving, God-fearing woman. Pick your lesson and run with it.

—Barbie

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