Off The Record
My Husband Called Me A ‘Scarecrow’ After I Gave Birth To Triplets—So I Gave Him A Lesson He’ll Never Forget
My husband referred to me as a “scarecrow” after I gave birth to triplets and began an affair with his assistant. He believed I was too damaged to defend myself. He was mistaken. What I did next changed me into someone he would never recognize and cost him a price he never anticipated.
I thought I had finally discovered my soul mate. The kind of man who promised me the world, brightened every space he entered, and made everything seem possible. All of that and more was Ethan.
We created a life together for eight years. We were married five of those years. We battled against infertility for what seemed like an eternity, month after disappointing month, until at last I became pregnant… with triplets.
It felt miraculous to see three babies on the ultrasound screen. When the doctor informed us, her expression was one of both happiness and worry, and I could see why as soon as my body began to change. This was more than a pregnancy. From the beginning, this was survival mode.
My ankles became as big as grapefruits. I was unable to eat for weeks. I watched my body change into something I didn’t recognize by the fifth month, when I was under severe bed rest.
My skin stretched farther than I had imagined. A stranger’s face appeared in my reflection; it was bloated, worn out, and barely hanging on. However, each kick, flutter, and restless night served as a reminder of my motivation.
“This is it,” I thought as I held Noah, Grace, and Lily when they eventually showed up, little, perfect, and screaming. This is the sensation of love.
At first, Ethan was ecstatic. He shared photos on social media, accepted congrats at work, and reveled in his newfound role as a father to triplets. Everyone complimented him for being such a supportive husband and a rock. In the meantime, I lay in that hospital bed, swollen and sutured, feeling as though I had been struck by a truck and had been reassembled incorrectly.
His words, “You did amazing, babe,” came as he squeezed my hand. “You’re incredible.”
I trusted him. God, I took everything at face value.
I was drowning three weeks after returning home. There is no other term for it. Sobbing uncontrollably and drowning in bottles and diapers. I was still bleeding, hurting, and mending.
Nothing else fit, so I wore the same two pairs of baggy sweatpants. I didn’t have the time to wash my hair, so it was always in a messy bun. I had forgotten that there was such a thing as sleep.
That morning, Grace slept next to me in her bassinet while I sat on the couch nursing Noah. Lily had just collapsed after yelling for forty minutes in a row. Spit-up was all over my clothes. I was so tired that my eyes burned.
Ethan entered as I was attempting to recall if I had eaten anything that day. He smelled like the pricey cologne I used to adore, and he was dressed for work in a sharp blue suit.
His nose furrowed slightly as he paused in the doorway and gave me a quick up-and-down glance. “You look like a scarecrow.”
Between us, the words lingered. I briefly believed I had misheard him.
“Excuse me?”
As if he had just made a remark about the weather, he shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “You’ve truly let yourself down, I must say. Claire, I know you recently had children, but wow. Perhaps give your hair a brush? You appear to be a live, breathing scarecrow.”
As I shifted Noah’s position, my hands shook a little and my throat dried up. “I had triplets, Ethan. I don’t even have time to urinate.”
He murmured, “Relax,” with that airy, contemptuous chuckle I was beginning to despise. “It’s only a joke. These days, you’re overly sensitive.”
I was left sitting there with our son in my arms and tears blazing behind my eyes as he picked up his briefcase and left. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened because I was too stunned, upset, and tired.
However, it didn’t end there. And that was only the start.
The remarks continued to pour in over the following weeks. Tiny insults passed off as humor or compassion. “When do you think you’ll get your body back?” One evening while I was folding little onesies, Ethan requested.
Eyeing my postpartum belly, he offered, “Maybe you could try some yoga,” at a later date.
He once mumbled, “God, I miss the way you used to look,” so softly that I nearly missed it.
When I raised my shirt to feed, the man who used to kiss every inch of my growing tummy now shrank away. His eyes were clouded with disappointment, as though I had betrayed him by not bouncing back right away.
I began to stay away from mirrors completely. I couldn’t handle seeing what he saw—someone who wasn’t enough anymore—not because I cared about my appearance.
“Do you even hear yourself?” One evening, after he had made another joke about my appearance, I asked him.
“What? I’m just telling the truth. You’ve always stated that you want our marriage to be honest.”
“Honesty isn’t cruelty, Ethan.”
He gave an eye roll. “You’re exaggerating. I’m merely urging you to look after yourself once more.”
Months passed slowly. Ethan began arriving home after the babies had fallen asleep, staying late at work, and sending fewer texts.
He would respond, “I need space,” when I questioned why he was never present. “You know, it’s a lot. Three children. I need some time to relax.”
In the meantime, I was getting more and more enmeshed in bottles, diapers, and restless nights that turned into long, tiring days. My heart hurt more than my body, which was always hurting. The man I had married was vanishing and being replaced with a chilly, aloof, unpleasant person.
The night that made all the difference then arrived.
After a tiring evening routine, I had just laid the infants down when I noticed his phone glowing on the kitchen counter. Normally, I wouldn’t have peeked at Ethan when he was taking a shower. I had never been the type to snoop.
But I had to go over and pick it up for some reason.
My blood ran cold when I saw the message on the screen:
“You deserve someone who takes care of themselves, not a frumpy mom. 💋💋💋”
Vanessa, along with a lipstick emoji, was the contact name. His helper. The woman he had mentioned a few times in passing, always with such innocence in his voice.
As I gazed at the screen, my hands began to shake. Upstairs, I could hear the shower running. In the nursery, Grace began to fuss. But that message was all I could think about.
I refrained from confronting my spouse. Not quite yet. Rather, with a clarity I was unaware I possessed, my instincts took over. Ethan was overly conceited and trusting. He never believed I would have a reason to peek at his phone, therefore he never set a password. I swiped it to unlock it.
His and Vanessa’s communications dated back months, and they were full of sexy texts, gripes about me, and pictures I couldn’t stand to look at too much. As I scrolled, I felt sick to my stomach, but I couldn’t stop.
On his phone, I accessed my email and sent all of the conversations to myself. text screenshots. call records. Everything. After that, I removed the sent email from his phone, emptied the trash, and put it back in its original location.
I was feeding Lily as if nothing had occurred when he walked downstairs twenty minutes later, his hair still dripping.
He grabbed a drink from the refrigerator and inquired, “Everything okay?”
I responded, “Fine,” without raising my gaze. “Everything’s fine.”
I changed throughout the course of the following several weeks, but this time in a positive way. I attended a postpartum support group where other moms shared my experience. In order for me to breathe again, my mom came to stay with us and helped with the babies.
I began walking every morning, first for only fifteen minutes, then for thirty, and finally for an hour. I had peace and room to contemplate because of the fresh air.
Having not painted since before the wedding, I started up again. The brushstrokes and the way colors merged and communicated with each other were recalled by my hands. I sold a couple of the works I put up online in a matter of days. The money wasn’t the point. It was about getting back what was rightfully mine.
Ethan’s conceit increased in the meantime. He believed that I was too worn out, shattered, and reliant to notice his late nights and evasive justifications. He believed he had won.
He was unaware of what was about to happen.
I put his favorite meal, lasagna with extra cheese, garlic bread, and a bottle of red wine on the table one evening. I changed into a fresh shirt and lit candles. A look of surprise crossed his face as he entered and noticed the setup.
“What’s all this?”
I grinned as I said, “I wanted to celebrate,” “Us getting back on track.”
He sat down with a sincere expression of satisfaction. We consumed food and beverages. He began boasting about his new “team,” his job, and how good things were going. I played the interested wife and nodded along, asking questions.
“Ethan,” I whispered quietly as I put my fork down. “Remember when you said I looked like a scarecrow?”
His grin wavered. “Oh, hurry up. That doesn’t still make you angry.”
“No,” I said, carefully getting to my feet. “I’m not angry. In fact, I wanted to express my gratitude. You were correct.
“What?”
I went to the drawer, took out a big envelope made of manila, and placed it on the table before him. He glanced at it and then back at me.
“Open it.”
Pulling up the printed printouts of every text, picture, and flirtatious word he’d shared with Vanessa made his hands tremble a little. He lost the color in his face.
“Claire, I… this isn’t what it looks like…”
“It’s exactly what it looks like.”
Once more, I opened the drawer and took out a fresh set of documents. Calmly, “Divorce papers,” I said. “You’ll discover that the residence already has your signature on file. When we refinanced before the babies were born, I made sure of that. It’s funny what you’ll sign when you’re distracted. And guess who’s getting full custody since I’m the primary caregiver and you’re hardly home?”
His mouth fell open. “You can’t do this.”
“I already did.”
“Please, Claire. I was wrong. I was foolish. I didn’t mean to…”
I clarified that “you never meant for me to find out,” “There’s a difference.”
After grabbing my keys, I made my way to the nursery. I heard him getting up behind me, his chair scuffing the floor.
“Where are you going?”
I said, “To kiss my babies goodnight,” without looking back. “And then I’m going to sleep better than I have in months.”
The fallout happened just as it should have. As soon as Vanessa saw that Ethan wasn’t the prosperous family man she had envisioned, she broke up with him. After someone—anonymously, of course—forwarded those offensive comments to HR, his reputation at work fell apart.
He moved into a tiny apartment across town after the divorce, paid child support, and saw the kids every other weekend when I let him.
Meanwhile, an unforeseen event occurred. I had begun publishing my artwork online to feel human again, and it began to attract attention.
I had a painting that went viral, which I called “The Scarecrow Mother.” It depicted a woman holding three glowing hearts to her chest out of straw and sewn fabric. It was described as real, lovely, and eerie.
A nearby gallery made contact. My work was to be included in a solo exhibition.
For the first time in what seemed like years, I smiled honestly as I stood in that gallery on the night of the opening, dressed simply in a black dress, with my hair combed and styled. The triplets were resting well at my mom’s house. I promised to return soon after feeding and kissing them before I left.
The gallery was crowded. People I had never met told me how my work touched them and how they recognized themselves in my scarecrow mother’s worn eyes and sewn fabric. I felt alive, connected, and sold pieces.
I noticed Ethan standing close to the door halfway through the evening, appearing smaller in some sense.
With his hands in his pockets, he walked slowly up. “Claire. You look amazing.”
“Thank you,” I said in a courteous manner. “I heeded your counsel. I combed my hair.”
His attempt at laughter was unsuccessful. He had tears in his eyes. “I apologize. For everything. I was mean. None of it was fair to you.”
“No,” I murmured in agreement. “No, I didn’t. However, I was entitled to better. And I have it now.”
He seemed to open his mouth to speak more, but he was unable to do so. He nodded and left after a minute, vanishing from my existence and into the crowd.
After everyone had left the gallery and gone home later that evening, I was the only one standing in front of “The Scarecrow Mother.” The stitched figure appeared nearly lifelike as the lighting caused the paint to shimmer.
On the couch that day, I reflected on Ethan’s remark, “You look like a scarecrow.” Words that were intended to shatter me and leave me feeling small, useless, and exhausted.
Scarecrows, however, are resilient. They stand in fields guarding the most important things, bending in the wind, and enduring every storm. And they do it without grumbling, without acknowledgment, and without seeking permission from others.
Anger or destruction aren’t always the best forms of retaliation. It involves gradually reconstructing yourself until you are someone who no longer resembles the people who once made you feel insignificant. It’s being strong when everyone thinks you’ll collapse. And it’s transforming suffering into art and discovering beauty in the shattered places.
“You were right, Ethan,” I said to myself as I walked home to my babies that evening, enjoying the crisp air on my face. “I am a scarecrow. And no matter how strong the wind gets, I’ll remain upright.”
And to everyone reading this who has ever been deconstructed and made to feel inferior by someone who claimed to be able to help them, keep in mind that you are not who they claim to be. What you decide to become defines who you are. Additionally, there are instances when the individual who tries to break you gives you just what you need to get back on your feet stronger than before.
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