I’d hoped to never bump into my ex-husband and his mistress after my divorce, but the minute they saw me again, they mocked my career, thinking I was down and out. Unfortunately for them, I now have the upper hand! Liam and I were married for three years.
We were the couple that people described as “solid,” predictable, stable, even a little boring. But my husband’s true nature eventually came out, and when I realized who he really was, I refused to stay. I thought having a boring life was safe, and after a childhood of chaos, that felt like paradise.
My husband and I both worked decent jobs. I was a junior marketing coordinator at a restaurant, and he was climbing the corporate ladder in tech. But above all, we wanted to be parents.
That was our north star. The first year, we tried casually. The second year, we tried medically.
By the third, I finally got pregnant! I can still remember how his face lit up when I told him. We were in the kitchen, the sun cutting across the counter, and I handed him a baby-sized onesie.
He cried. And then I did. But that joy crumbled fast.
At eleven weeks, I miscarried. The emotional bottom dropped out. I became a shell, going through the motions, numbed by loss.
I joined a grief support group. I took unpaid leave. I cried at the smell of baby powder in drugstores.
Liam, though? He grew distant. I figured it was his way of grieving.
I gave him space, maybe too much. It was during one of those early grief counseling sessions that everything fell apart. I was supposed to be out for two hours, but the session ended early, and I wasn’t ready to go back to my empty house.
My husband had refused to attend with me, saying he still needed time. I decided not to push, to allow him to mourn in his own way. But I should’ve known better.
So I grabbed a decaf at a café, sat, and people-watched a bit before finally deciding to head home. I walked in and noticed the heels first, familiar leopard-print stilettos by the door in the hallway. My heart stopped.
Then I heard laughter in the kitchen, a laugh I knew too well. Daria. My childhood best friend.
I peeked around the corner, and there they were, half-dressed, Liam with that same smile he’d given me when I told him I was pregnant, now directed at her. They were feeding each other whipped cream straight from the can! I was shocked and livid, but too drained by my grief to scream.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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