It had been years—years that I had devoted to Mike. A marriage is built on both the ordinary and the extraordinary: shared meals over eight years, whispered dreams, arguments followed by reconciliations, and everything else that forms the fabric of life together. To me, we were inseparable, unshakable. When he held my hand, I believed it meant forever. I didn’t realize that forever had an expiration date—a Tuesday evening that began like any other and ended with my entire life being upended, flipped over like a flimsy card table.
I came home exhausted, only to find a pregnant stranger on my couch—next to Mike. Smiling nervously, he introduced her as Jessica, his mistress, carrying their child. Then he told me to move out.
I left quietly, but my revenge was already forming. First, I froze our joint accounts. Next, I changed the locks, hired movers, and emptied the house of everything I owned. Then I invited everyone—his family, friends, coworkers—to a surprise “fresh start” party at the house. A giant billboard out front announced his betrayal.
When chaos erupted, I sipped wine and reminded him: the house was in my name. Soon broke and abandoned, Mike lost everything. I, however, thrived—with a new home, a business, and a cat named Karma.
