He had taken small amounts at different times because I gave him access to our joint expenses, and I had to run to the bathroom to vomit when I saw the records.
It wasn’t just that he lied to me, it was that he used me and everyone who loved him to fuel his addiction.
Weeks later I agreed to see him one last time at the rehabilitation center where he looked thinner and lacked his usual arrogant confidence.
“I did love you,” he told me with a breaking voice, but I looked at him for a long time before responding.
“Maybe so, but you loved hiding the consequences of your actions even more,” I replied with a steady voice.
He spoke about his addiction and how each lie forced him to invent a bigger one, even though he claimed he wanted to tell me the truth many times.
He waited until everything was about to explode and then tried to escape with a text message, which was the cowardice that hurt me the most.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, and for the first time he sounded sincere, but belated sincerity cannot rebuild what a lie destroys.
“I hope you recover, but I am not going to build a life with someone who had to lose everything to dare to be honest,” I told him before walking away.