[2]: The Darkest Confessions of Reddit
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Welcome back to our series on the darkest entries found on the r/confessions subreddit, where each story plunges even deeper into unsettling territory. We're diving headfirst into the secrets that people would rather keep buried, exposing personal admissions that are too chilling to forget. Brace yourself, and viewer discretion is absolutely advised. Alright, let me get this out.

I know it's not going to be a great look, and yeah, part of me realizes this whole thing is teetering on the edge of a disaster, but maybe sharing will clear my head, or at least help me make sense of this absolute mess. It all started a few months back when I met Sarah. She was everything I usually go for: sharp-witted, magnetic, the kind of woman who can own a room without even trying. We clicked instantly, but it didn't stop there.

Despite being married, Sarah and I ended up at her place that very night. I didn't feel guilty, it was just a fling, a fun escape from the ordinary. But Sarah had this spark and I was absolutely hooked. For me, attraction has never been one size fits all. I'm drawn to people who exude charisma, confidence, the kind of energy that pulls you in and keeps you guessing. Whether it's a man or a woman, doesn't matter as much to me as that electric connection. And Sarah?

had it in spades. For the first few weeks, I kept things casual with her. We met up here and there, had a few wild nights together, and went our separate ways until the next time. I knew she was married, but she rarely mentioned her husband, so I figured he wasn't much of an issue. I never really expected him to be an obstacle, or even relevant to our situation. Then came the twist that I didn't see coming. One Friday night, I decided to hit a bar a few neighborhoods over. That's where I met Jake,

He had this confident grin, a laugh that could fill the room, and within an hour, we were drinking and talking like old friends. The chemistry was instant, and I wasn't about to overthink it. By the end of the night, he ended up at my place, and I'll just say that he didn't disappoint. Like Sarah, he had that magnetic energy, that effortless confidence, and the thrill of this secret affair added a forbidden spark to our connections.

At that point, I thought I'd stumbled into two incredible flings at once. No harm, no foul. After all, Jake never brought up his relationship status, and it seemed like he preferred to keep things under wraps. For weeks, I managed to juggle both Sarah and Jake, keeping things compartmentalized and never expecting those worlds to collide. But I have to admit, I was wrong about that. The first clues were subtle, almost too subtle to notice.

Sarah would sometimes mention her husband in passing like "Ugh, he's at the gym again" or "He's out with his friends tonight." Jake, on the other hand, would be vague about family obligations. But I brushed it off, if I'm being honest. I didn't care to dig into either of their personal lives. I was enjoying the thrill too much to look too closely. But then, one night, the pieces began to fall into place. I was lying in bed with Sarah after a wild evening.

Scrolling absentmindedly through Instagram while she dozed off next to me, she mumbled something about plans for the next day, a dinner with her husband's family. She said it so casually, eyes half closed, that I almost didn't catch it. He invited me to some family thing tomorrow night. I figured, why not? I didn't think much of it until my phone buzzed with a message from Jake. It read, wish me luck tomorrow, taking my wife to a family dinner, first time in ages. For a moment,

I just stared at my screen, heart pounding as the realization sank in. I looked over at Sarah, fast asleep, blissfully unaware that her family dinner date was the same man who had just texted me from the other side of town. This twisted, impossible truth hit me like a freight train. Somehow, I had been dating both halves of a married couple without either of them knowing. It was like being sucked into a fever dream, a bizarre, tangled web that I was now smack in the middle of.

And the worst part? It didn't make me want to stop. If anything, the discovery sent a rush through me, a dark thrill at the impossibility of it all. I had become the secret link holding together this fragile facade of their marriage. I tried to back off, really, but the more I considered pulling away, the harder it was to resist. They each had this intoxicating appeal, and the secrecy only heightened it. With Sarah, it felt like this adventurous escape.

Like we were breaking all the rules and loving every second of it. She would pour us wine, lean in close, and laugh about the things she never shared with anyone else. It was like our own private world. With Jake, it was different but just as intense. He would send me late night texts to meet up, usually at some obscure location where we wouldn't be seen. He'd flash me that irresistible grin and make it feel like we were partners in some wild, thrilling heist.

It was reckless, dangerous, and I was addicted to every second of it. But now, I was walking a tightrope, trying my best not to fall off. Every time one of them mentioned the other in passing, my pulse would quicken, wondering if I'd be caught. Yet, a part of me almost wanted it to happen, to see what would go down. The stakes were high, and the risk made it all the more exhilarating. Lately, though, I've started to wonder how long this game can last.

Part of me knows it's only a matter of time before one of them says something that makes the whole thing implode. I imagine Sarah finding out that her husband has been sneaking around with men on the side, or Jake learning that his down-low affair is also the guy who's been with his wife. The fallout would be catastrophic, and maybe in some twisted way. That's why I'm still here. I want to see just how much chaos can unfold when the truth comes to light.

For now, I'm keeping my double life under wraps, carefully navigating each encounter and savoring the forbidden thrill of my scandalous little secret. The stakes couldn't be higher, but I can't bring myself to let go of either of them. Each moment feels like walking a razor's edge, dangerously close to slicing everything open and letting the whole thing bleed out. Maybe someday I'll slip, or maybe I'll set it all on fire myself and walk away from the ashes. But until then, I'll be here.

caught in this dangerous little web, savoring every secretive moment before the inevitable storm hits. Six years ago, I became a mother. My son, Josh, has bright, curious eyes that seem to take in the world with a wonder that's all his own. His laugh is infectious, pure, and heartwarming, and his gentle touch is one of the few things that can instantly calm my soul. I adore him,

Yet, there are days, more than I'd like to admit, when I wonder if I made the right choice bringing him into this world. Josh was born with Down syndrome, and every day since his birth has felt like a delicate balancing act, one I've come close to stumbling on more times than I care to count. When I was pregnant, I had that moment of choice, that uncomfortable but necessary conversation with my doctor. It was a possibility, he said, a choice to consider carefully.

At the time, it felt impossible to even think about. I already loved him so deeply, and I imagined myself as the mother who could handle anything, who could mature and love and give this child a good life, despite any hurdles we might face. I'd be the hero in his life story. I told myself that love would be enough. But love doesn't erase hardship. It doesn't protect you from the dark, lonely moments that keep you awake at night. Life with Josh has been nothing like I expected.

His daily needs are complex. He requires constant supervision, not just out of necessity, but out of a fear that he could hurt himself in ways he doesn't understand. Basic tasks, things that seem so effortless for other kids, take monumental effort with him. Feeding him can feel like a battle as he's sensitive to different textures and tastes, and getting him dressed can take upwards of an hour as he struggles with buttons or zippers. Even communication is a struggle.

I often find myself playing guessing games, trying to understand his needs or why he's upset, hoping to land on the right solution before he becomes too frustrated. We tried speech therapy, occupational therapy, early intervention programs, everything recommended to give him the best chance at some form of independence. And while he's made strides, every victory feels like it's overshadowed by an avalanche of setbacks. It's like walking uphill in the dark with no end in sight.

I'm always waiting, hoping, telling myself it will get easier, but it doesn't. And then there's the isolation. When Josh was born, our friends and family surrounded us with support, reassurance, and promises that we'd never be alone in this. But gradually, people stopped coming by, friends drifted away, and even family members seemed to keep their distance. I get it,

Josh's needs are challenging, and being around us can make them feel uncomfortable or unsure of how to help. But that knowledge doesn't make the loneliness sting any less. When I'm around other mothers, I feel like I don't belong. Their kids are learning to read, talking about school crushes, making friends at the park, experiences I long for but can't relate to. I stand on the sidelines, watching Josh struggle with simple things, and I can't shake the pang of envy

When I see other mothers chatting with their kids, having conversations I know I may never have with my son. My marriage has become another casualty. My husband and I used to be a team, but now we're like exhausted coworkers, barely communicating except to coordinate Josh's needs. He's withdrawn, probably dealing with his own feelings about our reality. But instead of coming together, we drift further apart each day. Nights out are a rare luxury. Intimacy feels like a distant memory.

And every conversation circles back to Josh. His appointments. His therapies. His future. Sometimes when we're lying in bed in the dark, I feel like we're both lying in separate worlds, bonded only by our shared exhaustion. Josh's younger sister, my daughter Emma, is another victim of this situation. She loves her brother. She really does. But even at her young age, I see the way she's beginning to carry a burden no child should have.

She's taken on a caretaker role far too early, often helping me calm Josh during his meltdowns, bringing him toys to distract him, or reminding me of his needs when I'm so overwhelmed I can't think straight. I ache for her, knowing that this responsibility will only grow heavier with time, that her childhood won't be carefree because of the choices I made. And then there are the unspoken fears about Josh's future. I know this world isn't kind to people like him,

As he gets older, I worry about the loneliness he'll face, the bullying he might endure, the limitations society will place on him without a second thought. I dread the day when he realizes that other people look at him differently, that he doesn't fit the world's idea of normal, and I'm terrified that he'll feel the pain of that judgment. I find myself wishing he could be spared from that reality, from the heartbreak he'll inevitably face. But it's too late for that. There are nights when the darkness wraps around me.

And the thought I've tried so hard to bury rises to the surface. The question of whether I made the right choice. I look back on that moment in the doctor's office, wondering if I acted out of love, or simply out of pride. Unable to accept that I might not be strong enough to face this. It's a thought I'm ashamed of. A confession I can't even make to myself without guilt choking me. Because I love Josh. I love him with every part of me. And I can't imagine life without him.

But sometimes, I wonder if he'd been spared this life of struggle and hurt if I'd just chosen differently. When people see Josh, they don't see the struggles. They see a sweet boy with a big smile and curious eyes, and they tell me I'm a wonderful mother, a saint for handling everything with such grace. They don't know the dark moments, the doubts, the regret that sometimes gnaws at me when I think no one's watching. I know it's not fair to him, but I can't help but wish life were different.

That he didn't have to bear the burden of my choices. I'm here now sharing this because it's the only way I can get it out. There's no one in my life I can tell this to. No one who would understand without judging me. I love my son more than anything. But that love doesn't stop the pain, the isolation, the guilt. And I know no matter how much I wish I'd done things differently, I'm committed to giving him the best life I can. But that doesn't erase the burden of what if.

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My ex-wife and I divorced six years ago, and it was nothing short of brutal. We shared two sons, now ages 9 and 13, and for years after the split, there was nothing between us except logistical arrangements and polite exchanges about the kids. Our lives ran in parallel but didn't intersect beyond coordinating pickups, drop-offs, and school events. I knew nothing of her personal life, and she knew nothing of mine.

We lived barely two miles apart, split custody evenly, and that was that. But lately, something had shifted. This past year, she'd started acting differently, friendlier, warmer. She'd make small talk during exchanges, or comment on random details of the kids' lives that she'd usually gloss over. I wasn't interested in reconnecting or rebuilding a relationship with her, so I just brushed it off as an odd phase. Then came Monday.

It was my week with the boys, so I picked them up from school, the usual routine. At around 8pm, I got a text from her. She thanked me for being a great dad, told me I was the only person she trusted completely with the kids, and she asked me to tell the boys that she loved them. This was odd. She usually called my eldest to say goodnight every night they were with me, but not that night. The next morning, on my way to work, I drove past her house like I always do. Her car was still parked outside.

but I didn't think much of it. Maybe she was working from home, or wasn't feeling well. Later that morning, I texted her about a book our son had left at her house, and I waited. No response. Hours passed. Still nothing. That was when I felt the first prickling of unease. If it had to do with the kids, she'd normally reply within minutes. Growing worried, I tried calling her. It went straight to voicemail.

I left a message trying to keep my voice steady, saying that if she didn't get back to me by 2pm, I'd stop by her house to make sure everything was alright. I couldn't call any of her friends. She kept her personal life private, and I didn't know anyone in her circle. Her parents lived out of state, so they were out of reach too. I waited as long as I could, but the hours dragged by with nothing. My stomach knotted tighter and tighter. Finally, I left work early and drove over.

I saw packages sitting untouched on our doorstep, a red flag. She never left packages out for long. Anxiety mounting, I knocked. I called out, but heard nothing. At that moment, instinct kicked in. I let myself in and walked through the house, calling her name, hoping she'd appear and brush off my concern. But as I reached the bedroom, I stopped cold. There she was, lying on the bed, still and silent.

dark stain blooming across her shirt. In her hand, I thought I saw her phone, but when I looked closer, I realized it wasn't a phone. It was a gun. It was painfully clear then that she had shot herself in the chest. I don't remember much after that. I called 911, and they questioned me for hours. They said they'd reach out to her parents since I was no longer next of kin. Somehow, in the blur of that day, I still had to pick my kids up.

I forced myself to put on a stone face, to push everything down, and be the dad they expected when they climbed into the car. Inside, though, my mind was spinning. By Wednesday, the calm was breaking. My eldest started complaining that his mom wasn't replying to his texts. He asked me to take him to her house, which was still taped off by police, evidence of what they'd found inside. He thought she was ignoring his messages, or that her phone was broken, and he wanted to tell her to fix it.

My heart ached, and I knew I couldn't keep up this facade much longer. I went to his school and asked to speak privately with the principal, explaining that my kid would be missing school next week. The principal looked at me, asking what was so important that he'd miss an entire week. I swallowed, forcing the words out. His mother just committed suicide, and I haven't told him yet. Every day, my ex-mother-in-law has been calling, begging to talk to the boys. I've had to tell her that I haven't told them yet.

Things have been moving too quickly, and I haven't even processed it myself. My eldest senses something is wrong. He's perceptive, always has been. Now my younger son is starting to pick up on the tension. I can feel the weight of their questions building, the way they search my face for answers I can't bear to give. My 13-year-old is relentless. He demands to go to his mom's house, insisting she needs to answer him. He even threatened to skip school if I didn't take him there. My 9-year-old, sensitive as ever.

has clung to me tightly these past few days, refusing to let me drop him off at school. He doesn't understand yet, but he feels something is terribly wrong. This morning, he had a meltdown in the car, pleading with me to tell him what's going on. I've made the decision to tell them on Saturday. I need these last couple of days to prepare myself because I know once they know, our lives will never be the same. My 13-year-old will lose it.

He's old enough to feel the weight of this loss, to be angry and devastated in ways that his little brother might not fully grasp. And I know that whatever pain I feel now is nothing compared to the heartbreak I'll feel once I look into their faces and tell them the truth. In all the years since our divorce, I never imagined I'd be the one to deliver news like this. We had grown so far apart, our lives so divided, yet here I am, holding our final secret.

The one that will shatter our children. I wish I could have seen it coming. That I could have done something to prevent it. Maybe if I'd paid closer attention to her newfound friendliness. To the subtle shifts in her demeanor. I might have recognized her need for help, but I didn't. And now all that's left is to pick up the pieces for our sons. In a way, it feels like her divorce never ended. Her pain was hidden, but ever present. Something she carried alone until it consumed her.

And now, that pain is here with me, with our children, leaving us to carry the weight of her absence. I want to thank you for tuning into this episode. If you enjoyed it and wish to support the channel, you can do so by heading over to our Patreon. You can find us at patreon.com slash malevolent mischief. By becoming a patron, you'll gain access to early and exclusive content and a way to interact with me directly. Thanks again for checking us out. And again, I hope to catch you on the next one.

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