After divorcing Ryan, my life started to improve. He had been a lazy, unfaithful husband, and I was tired of dragging that deadweight around. But Ryan’s mother, Helen, refused to accept our separation, constantly nagging me to take him back. I ignored her pleas, focusing on my kids and my new boyfriend, Kevin, who made me feel loved and supported.

On my thirty-fourth birthday, Kevin planned a small party at home. Everything was perfect until I received a huge red gift box from Helen. My stomach twisted with unease, but I opened it anyway, only to find a dozen rats inside. They spilled out, sending my kids and me into a panic.

I called 911, and the police arrived, confirming we couldn’t stay in the house. I decided to press charges against Helen. The police accompanied me to her house, where she initially denied everything until confronted with her note. I left her to face the consequences.

Back home, Kevin had packed the car, ready to move the party to my parents’ house. “We’re not letting Helen ruin your day,” he said. Later, as we grilled burgers and laughed in my parents’ backyard, I realized that Helen and Ryan were nothing more than distant memories.