I honestly don’t know if I’m overreacting… or losing it.

So yeah, my husband and I—both 28—moved to a new country for work. We even ended up working at the same office building. Everything was fine until she showed up.

Her name’s Léonie. She’s 39, management position, married, has kids, horses, and this perfect life plastered all over Facebook. But behind the filtered selfies and anniversary posts, she’s the one who texted my husband a literal offer to meet up for “problems.” That was the word she used. Problems.

And no, I didn’t see it coming. At first, it was just polite thank-yous and “Are you single?” He told her about me—said we were married and both worked there. She recognized me. Didn’t matter. The messages kept coming.

He showed me everything. I told him she was too old to be flirting with him—God, I hate myself for saying that now. Like age has anything to do with it.

Anyway, after that bold message, he ghosted her, blocked her, said he was done. But she didn’t stop. She found him again on Instagram two days ago. Sent him this pathetic little heart-eyed “How is it you show up in my suggestions?” followed by a long-winded guilt trip asking him not to block her again before she explains herself.

And me? I’ve been deep-diving her Facebook like it’s my second job. I know her kids’ names. What kind of saddle she uses. What beach her family goes to every summer.

I even bookmarked her profile.

I’m not proud of it. But I just can’t stop.

Sometimes I scroll through her feed late at night and wonder—how does someone live two lives like that? Loving wife by day… husband hunter by night?

I haven’t told my husband I’m still watching her.

But this morning… I almost messaged her husband when I saw the photos she posted from their “romantic weekend.”

There he was—this tall, salt-and-pepper guy with kind eyes—beaming beside her in matching robes. They were holding champagne glasses in some overpriced hotel spa. The caption read, “Still my favorite human after all these years 💛”

I swear, something in me snapped.

I typed out a whole message. No lies. Just screenshots. No threats, no drama. I just wanted to show him what she was doing behind his back. But I didn’t hit send. I saved it in my drafts and slammed my laptop shut.

My heart was racing like I’d just done something terrible.

Later that night, my husband, Marc, noticed how quiet I was.

“You okay?” he asked, rubbing my shoulders like he always does when he knows I’m holding something in.

I wanted to say it. That I still checked her feed, that I felt obsessed and kind of sick. But instead, I asked, “Do you think people ever really change?”

He hesitated, then said, “Only if they want to.”

And that’s the thing—Léonie doesn’t want to change. She wants to get away with it. She wants the perfect family and to feel like she can still get attention from younger men.

For a while, I tried to convince myself it was harmless. That it was just lonely flirting. That maybe her marriage was cold. Maybe she never planned to actually cheat.

But then, a week later, I ran into her in the office cafeteria.

She smiled at me like we were friends. Like she hadn’t tried to wreck my peace.

“Hey there,” she said, lifting her little green smoothie.

I smiled back. A tight one.

“Hey,” I said, trying to keep walking.

But she didn’t let me.

“I hope there’s no weirdness,” she said quickly, lowering her voice. “With Marc. I think there was some misunderstanding.”

I blinked.

“You messaged my husband. Asking to meet up for ‘problems.’ What part of that is a misunderstanding?”

Her eyes widened slightly—like she didn’t expect me to call it out.

“I was just venting,” she said. “He’s easy to talk to. And I was going through a hard time.”

I should’ve walked away. But instead, I said, “Do your husband and kids know that when you go through a hard time, you flirt with married men at work?”

Her smile faltered. She looked around, clearly aware that we weren’t alone in the room.

“I think you’re being dramatic,” she said flatly.

“No,” I said. “I think I’m being very patient.”

Then I walked off, heart pounding.

I didn’t tell Marc about the conversation. I didn’t want to give her any more space in our lives.

But I also didn’t stop checking her Facebook.

Except now, I wasn’t looking out of jealousy. I was waiting. For the cracks to show.

And boy, did they.

A few weeks after that awkward cafeteria encounter, she stopped posting pictures of her husband. No more anniversary quotes. No “date night” selfies. It was just her and the horses now. Or the kids. Or the odd shot of a wine glass next to a book with a vague caption like, “Healing slowly 💔”

I noticed, and I’ll admit—my first reaction wasn’t sympathy.

It was, Did he find out?

I checked her husband’s profile (yes, I’d found it too), and his page had zero updates. Just old photos of their vacations. But then, a friend of hers commented under one of her beach posts: “So sorry to hear, sending love to you and the kids.”

That was it. One comment. But it confirmed everything.

Léonie’s picture-perfect life was falling apart.

And you’d think I’d feel victorious. Like, Good. That’s karma. But instead, I felt… conflicted.

I sat there with my phone in hand, scrolling through her photos, and for the first time, I wondered—had I let her take over my peace?

Because while her marriage was unraveling, mine was strong. Marc and I had started going on morning walks together. We were cooking again. Laughing more. He had no idea I was still knee-deep in her online world.

Until one night, after we finished watching a movie, he said, “You seem lighter lately.”

I smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. Happier. Like you’re not holding your breath anymore.”

That stuck with me. Because maybe I had been holding my breath. Waiting for her to pay. Waiting for things to go wrong for her so I could feel better.

But then… one last twist.

A new post. This time, not from Léonie—but from her husband.

It was a long one.

He wrote about rebuilding. About betrayal. About finding out something that shattered his trust but also woke him up to how distant they’d become. He never mentioned her name. Never said “affair.” But it was clear.

He ended it with: “Sometimes we ignore the red flags because we’re afraid of starting over. But staying silent only robs everyone of the truth.”

And under that, dozens of comments poured in. Supportive ones. Curious ones. Some clearly from mutual friends who knew more than they said.

I stared at that post for a long time.

I thought about the message I’d written months ago. The one I never sent.

And I realized… he’d found out without me. Maybe not from me, but somehow. The truth always bubbles up, doesn’t it?

That night, I told Marc everything. About the Facebook stalking. About almost messaging her husband. About how obsessed I’d become.

He didn’t get mad. He didn’t judge me. He just pulled me into his arms and said, “I’m sorry she made you feel like you weren’t enough. But you are. You always were.”

I cried. Not because of Léonie—but because I’d wasted so much time giving her power she never deserved.

I haven’t checked her profile since.

I blocked her on every platform.

And I started therapy—not because I was broken, but because I didn’t want to hold onto bitterness like that ever again.

Sometimes I still wonder what happened to her marriage. If they’re trying again. If the kids are okay.

But mostly, I think about how close I came to letting someone else’s choices poison my own heart.

Léonie tried to seduce my husband.

She failed.

But I almost let her win anyway—by giving her space in my mind, my phone, my nights.

Now? She doesn’t get that power anymore.

The truth is, some people will live fake lives for as long as they can. They’ll lie to themselves and the people who love them. But you don’t have to stay tangled in their mess.

You don’t have to watch them fall to feel better.

Peace doesn’t come from revenge. It comes from release.

If you’ve ever found yourself obsessing over someone who hurt you, I get it. I really do.

But trust me—your peace is worth more than their downfall.

Let them go.

And if this story hit home for you, don’t forget to like and share. You never know who else needs to hear this.