I Found Out He Was Married From a Google Review: A Final Chapter on Love, Heartbreak and Letting Go

This is the final part of my story with Steven, a man I loved with everything I had. It’s not a story of revenge, or even regret. It’s a story about what happens when someone you love deeply can’t choose you, and you finally stop chasing what hurts. Letting go wasn’t easy. It cost me more than I ever said out loud.

If you’ve ever loved someone who lived a double life, or found yourself questioning your own reality in the name of love, this chapter is for you.

This is how I found peace.

“Hey Sweetie, don’t worry about dressing up tonight, just put your pjs on. It’s a school night, so let’s just chill… PS: Do you have tea bags?”

I read the text from him while walking home from getting my nails done. We weren’t supposed to see each other that evening, but I replied simply: “Thanks for being so sweet. And yes, I have tea bags.”

I showered, did my hair, put on nice leggings and a cute top. I wanted to look good, even if we were just staying in.

He arrived. No overnight bag. I felt it immediately. Something was off.

So I asked him straight.

He sighed. “I’m not staying. I can’t do this. We need to talk.”

And then… he talked. Said he was losing sleep, couldn’t look at himself, didn’t want to lie to his daughters anymore. Because some lies are better than others, I thought. They had asked whether he was inviting his wife to Easter, but all he wanted to do was bring me.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he held me tight. Kissed me. Promised he’d return my keys soon, he just needed to “get his shit together.” And then he left.

Just like that, it was over.

When we got back together months earlier, I wanted the truth. I needed to know what I was signing up for. He told me he was in an open marriage. They lived separately. She did her thing, he did his. He made it sound modern, evolved and workable.

I thought maybe this was my chance to try something different. To learn about ethical non-monogamy. To expand.

But how do you build a transparent relationship when the foundation has been laid in betrayal?

I tried to believe in us. I defended him to my friends and family, convinced myself I could handle it. Convinced them too. I wanted to prove I was strong enough, that we were strong enough, to make it work.

And at first, it felt like we were.

He showed up consistently. He was generous, with his time, attention, gifts. We spent weekends together, several nights in a row. Christmas. Valentine’s. He was present.

But over time, I started noticing the cracks.

Whenever he had plans with his wife, he’d suddenly pull away. Emotionally vanish. It felt like the rug had been pulled from under me. And then, days later, he’d return full force, passionate, focused, attentive. The highs were high. But the crashes after were brutal.

The emotional whiplash became unbearable.

I never met anyone from his life. We only communicated on Telegram, because, in his words, the rest of his apps were for his “vanilla” friends and family. His social media was private. I didn’t know where I stood, even though he made grand gestures.

And I started to unravel.

There were moments when I became paranoid that it wasn’t just me and his wife, and that there were others. Other women, other versions of himself. I’d deleted the app more than once, just to stop checking it compulsively. Trying to walk away in my head, convincing myself that this time I’d do it for real. But I never could.

Because how do you leave someone who talks about the future with you? Who holds your face in their hands and says, I want this, even when you know their life is stitched with secrets?

The more I tried to truly know him, the less impressed I became. I started asking about his life, his daughters, his wife, his past. His answers were always partial, cryptic. He told me her parents had died just after they got married. I still don’t know if that’s true.

Maybe it was. Maybe not.

But I know he used grief and chaos as shields. Deflection. Diversion. Tools to keep me off balance.

When he told me the date of his wedding, I realized he was with me two days before, and two days after. That still makes me feel sick when I think about it. It was hurtful because his actions made me feel stupid and naive even though it was him who betrayed me, us, his wife and himself.

During that last year of our relationship, my body started to speak before I did. I was constantly getting sick, brutal colds every few months, the worst of them hitting over Christmas. I was run down, emotionally and physically, and I now know it was the stress. It was my body whispering what I couldn’t yet admit: this relationship was slowly breaking me down.

And strangely, or maybe not, since the day he walked away, I haven’t been ill once.

That last weekend we spent together, we listened to a voice note from one of his daughters. In it, she said, “Have fun with your friend, Dad.” It was the first time I had ever heard her voice, nearly two years into our relationship, and those words hit like a punch to the gut.

In my world, he called me his partner. But to his daughter, I was just a friend. It was confusing and sad. Later, I said to him, Just call me your lover, because at least that would have been honest.

I felt like I was always on the outside looking in. And maybe I could have lived with that if I had known the full truth from the beginning. If I had been given all the facts, I could have made an informed decision about being part of his tangled life.

But he took that choice away from me, by presenting himself as a single man from the very start.

And that’s the part that hurt the most. Not the lies. Not the secrets. But that I was never even given the chance to choose.

When he walked out that night, I didn’t run after him.

I closed the door. Sat down. Sobbed. For a moment, I wanted to beg him to stay. But something in me, some wise, stronger part, stopped me.

I called my friend. She just listened. Held space and let me cry it all out. That night, I slept better than I had in months.

Once I told everyone, it felt real. Final. There was no going back.

He messaged me a few times after. About finishing the book I’d lend him. About random things. But I was in a different place.

I went on holidays. Surrounded myself with friends and sunshine and new conversations. I journaled. I cried. I wrote letters I never sent. I spoke to my friends and poured it all out without judgment. I let myself grieve.

Eventually, it was time to get my keys back. We went back and forth for days, but he agreed to drop them off. I met him downstairs. He’d brought his dog, maybe hoping I’d soften. But I didn’t.

I thanked him. Walked away. Changed the locks.

And then came the final twist.

He texted me the next day to say I’d been cruel. How could I not offer him a cup of tea, not ask about his life? Even his dog was “confused.” He said he missed me. Wanted to squeeze me. That I’d been cold.

That message told me everything I needed to know. That he still didn’t see me. Still didn’t understand what he’d done. Still made it all about him. For the first time in a while I saw things clearly.

And I knew then: I wasn’t going back. I’d finally found the stillness I’d been chasing. And strange as it sounds, I was grateful he ended it, because I’m not sure I would’ve had the strength to do it first. Not then. Not yet.

I still miss him sometimes. The laughter, the passion, the way it felt to be held. But I don’t miss the uncertainty. Or his snoring. Peace has a beautiful quiet to it.

Because men like Steven don’t lie with every word. They mix truth and deception until you lose track of your own mind. Your own memories. Your own instincts.

I’m no expert on open relationships. But I know that honesty must come first. Masks eventually slip. And when they do, someone always gets hurt.

So I’ll remember the good. The bad. The bewildering.

And I’ll also remember the strength it took not to fold again.

My heart’s still tender. But it’s bigger than before. And I know, deeply, that I will love again.