Three days before our 25th anniversary trip to the Maldives, I had a stroke. One moment, I was chopping bell peppers; the next, I was on the kitchen floor, numb on one side, unable to speak. At the hospital, doctors confirmed it: a moderate ischemic stroke. I was terrified but clung to the dream of rescheduling our trip once I recovered.

On my third day in the hospital, Jeff called. I expected comfort — instead, he said postponing was too expensive. He’d offered the trip to his brother and was already at the airport. The line went dead. Twenty-five years of supporting him through layoffs, failed businesses, and his reluctance to have children — and when I needed him most, he chose a vacation.

I called Ava, my sharp, fearless niece, whose ex-fiancé once cheated with Jeff’s secretary, Mia. Ava dug into Jeff’s records, uncovering that he hadn’t gone with his brother but with Mia — and that his financial dealings were sloppier than his lies. Recovery was grueling, but I pushed through while Ava built the case.

It turned out most assets — the house, investments — were mine, bought before marriage or inherited. With Ava’s help, I hired a fierce divorce attorney. When I came home from the hospital, Jeff was met by a locksmith, a process server, and divorce papers complete with photos of him and Mia on the beach.

He begged to work things out. I handed him a “gift” — a Maldives trip booked in his name, non-refundable, during hurricane season. His face said it all.

I never went to the Maldives. Instead, I’m in Greece with Ava, sipping wine by the sea. Revenge tastes sweet — but freedom tastes better.