I used to think Jason was my happy ending. He accepted my son, Jamie, and moved into our Brooklyn apartment when he was down on his luck. I helped him get a job, and when he proposed, I gave up my career to raise our son while he promised to provide. But after that, Jason changed. Jamie became “too sensitive,” money disappeared, and Jason was always “traveling for work.” So, I started working night shifts as a taxi driver—tired, but grateful.

One night, I picked up a couple downtown. The man wore a gray coat, the woman red lipstick. I looked in the mirror and froze. It was Jason—with another woman. I stayed quiet, listening as they planned to trick her parents into gifting a house for their “engagement.” He said once I inherited my sick mother’s apartment, he’d leave me. I drove them, unnoticed, then sat in silence—already planning my revenge.

On our anniversary, Jason lied about a business trip. I said nothing. Instead, Jamie and I dressed up and drove to that woman’s house—where Jason was charming her parents. When they opened the door, I smiled sweetly. “Hi. I’m Jason’s wife. And this is our son.”

The room exploded with outrage. Jason stammered, Ashley went pale, and her parents demanded answers. I calmly exposed everything—his affair, his lies, his intentions.

Three months later, Ashley’s parents testified in my divorce case. I won everything. Jason was left with nothing.

Now, we live near the coast—me, Jamie, and my mom. It’s quiet, honest, and finally… peaceful.