My husband had told me he simply didn't love me anymore. But a shattering email at 4am revealed the depth of his deception

In the stillness of early morning, an email arrived that would change everything. The subject line simply read: 'I'm sorry.'. Deep down, I had sensed a shift in my marriage, but confronting the reality was a different matter. For months, I had questioned, felt the disconnect, and wondered if it was all in my head. Each time I voiced my concerns, I was met with denial, making me doubt my own instincts.

My husband reassured me, told me I was imagining things, made me question myself. But there it was, in black and white: a confession of infidelity. The thing is, my husband of more than 17 years had already told me it was over. 'I don't love you anymore. I'm leaving.' Cold. Blunt. Final. But still, I had held on. I had hoped. Maybe we could work through it, maybe this was just a phase, maybe, maybe, maybe….

Then, at 4am, my hope shattered. There was somebody else. It was not simply a case of no longer loving me, like he'd previously said. The moment I opened that email, I knew my life would never be the same. I walked outside, dialled his number, and let out everything I had been holding in. Rage, betrayal, grief - it all hit at once. He was apologetic, maybe even remorseful, but the damage was done. I was left to pick up the pieces, to navigate this new reality, and to somehow find a way forward.

The days that followed were a blur of emotions. But through the chaos, one thing was clear: my children needed me. More than my pain, more than my anger, they needed stability, reassurance and love. At 4am, my hope of a reconciliation with my husband shattered. He'd been having an affair. There was somebody else. It was not simply a case of no longer loving me, like he had previously said. We sat them down together, aiming to provide a united front, making sure they felt secure despite the upheaval. He sat there in silence, waiting for me to take the lead. Time stretched unbearably as I finally spoke the words that would reshape their world.

'Dad is going to stay with Nanny and Poppy for a while.'. The kids looked at us, confused. 'When is he coming back?' my youngest asked. The weight of the moment settled over me. I took a deep breath and knew I had to be direct. 'Dad and I are separating.' I paused, choosing my words carefully. 'Dad's going to stay over there for a while, and then we're going to figure out what this looks like. But we are still a family. Dad's still Dad. I'm still me. You still have the best of both of us. Do you have questions?'.

They didn't. Not yet. Instead, they scattered in different directions, each processing in their own way. Later that night, my youngest curled up beside me and whispered, 'Will it be okay?' My heart shattered all over again. In hindsight, I wish we had just said it straight from the start. Trying to soften the reality only led to confusion. Looking back, I see that children need clarity, even when it's painful. They need to feel secure enough to ask the hard questions. I should have given them that from the beginning.

I thought I was doing what needed to be done, but in reality, I was just surviving. That moment forced me to see what my children saw - a mother who was disappearing in front of them. But in that moment, we did the best we could. We put them first. No matter what had happened between us, we had to park our own pain and egos at the door and focus on them. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. But it was necessary.

For weeks, I was barely functioning. I pushed food around my plate, forced smiles and tried to convince myself I was holding it together. Until one night at dinner, my youngest looked at me and said, 'I'm not eating until I see you put food in your mouth.'. That was my wake-up call. I thought I was doing what needed to be done, but in reality, I was just surviving. That moment forced me to see what my children saw: a mother who was disappearing in front of them. I needed to get my strength back, not just for me, but for them.

I had to make a change. The stress of the relationship breakdown had consumed me, and I hadn't even realised how much I was neglecting myself. Pushing food around my plate, skipping meals - it had become second nature. But when my daughter looked at me and bravely said what she said, I knew I couldn't keep going like this. There was shame in that moment. What was I modelling for my 12-year-old daughter? If I couldn't take care of myself, how could I take care of them? It wasn't my proudest moment, but I needed to hear it.

I just thought: 'You have got to get yourself together, Nikki.'. Now I help other women DIY their divorces. That was the moment everything shifted. I had been going through the motions, but I wasn't truly looking after myself. My daughter's words were the slap in the face I needed to snap out of survival mode and start actively rebuilding my life. And the fact that she felt safe enough to say it to me? That meant everything.