My Friend Snatched and Married My Wife—So I Seduced and Married His Mother Instead. ( A story you need to read)
Episode 1
If you’ve ever watched your entire world collapse in slow motion while the person holding the wrecking ball smiles at you like nothing happened—you’ll understand my story. My name is Raymond. I was the guy everyone said had it all—a decent job, a loyal circle, and a woman I loved like air. And in that circle was my closest friend—Tunde. My ride-or-die. My brother from another mother. We ate together, laughed together, prayed together. I even made him my best man the day I married Ella. That was my first mistake.
The betrayal didn’t come suddenly. No. It crawled in like a whisper. I began noticing small things—late-night messages on Ella’s phone she claimed were “work stuff,” unexplained calls she stepped outside to answer, and Tunde showing up more often at odd hours with gifts he “just bought in traffic.” I thought I was overthinking. I kept trusting. Until the night I came home early from work—only to hear music playing in my living room, soft giggles, and then…
Silence.
I walked in.
Ella stood there, wrapped in a towel.
Tunde was seated on the couch—shirtless.
No one spoke.
I asked just one question: “Why?”
Ella folded her arms like I had just inconvenienced her. Tunde just said, “Bro, you were too busy chasing your dreams. You forgot she had needs.”
That was the night my marriage ended.
But not my pain.
That came in waves—when I found out they had gotten married in secret three months later. Tunde posted the photos like a trophy. Ella had changed her last name. They moved into a duplex I once helped him paint. Everyone around me either avoided eye contact or pretended not to know.
I lost everything.
But grief does something to a man. It either buries him—or sharpens him. I didn’t die. I watched. I waited. I healed quietly. And when the time came, I smiled.
Because I had a plan.
Revenge isn’t always fire and fury. Sometimes it’s silk and charm. And for me, revenge wore red lipstick, high heels, and answered to the name Mrs. Caroline Tunde—Tunde’s mother.
She was a widow. A retired headmistress. Regal, fierce, and lonely. I had met her before, of course—at family functions, birthdays, that sort of thing. But I had never looked at her the way I did now.
Until I did.
It started with a visit. Just to “check on Mama.” Then a lunch. Then helping her set up her new generator. Then sharing laughter over old wedding photos. Then wine. Then subtle compliments. Then soft touches.
She called me “a gentle soul.” Said I was better than the fools her son called friends.
And one rainy evening, in her living room, while the thunder drowned our hesitation…
She kissed me.
And I kissed her back.
Weeks passed.
One night, I asked her, “Would you ever marry again?”
She smiled. “Only if the man was loyal.”
Two months later, we got married.
A small private ceremony. No crowd. No noise.
But I made sure to send the pictures.
To Tunde.
To Ella.
To everyone who once laughed behind my back.
Tunde called me at midnight.
He didn’t yell.
He whispered.
“You married my mother?”
I said, “I didn’t steal her. She chose me.”
To be continued
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