I always trusted my husband Evan with the basement—it was his private space, his “man cave.” I never had a reason to question what went on down there until one night, when I heard a woman laugh while he claimed to be out buying milk. That moment unraveled everything I thought I knew about my marriage. We’d been together for over ten years, and I thought we were stable. Turns out, I was only half of the story.

The red flags had been there—perfume on his shirts, sudden showers before workouts, and those late-night grocery runs. But I brushed them off, thinking I was overanalyzing. That night, I heard her voice from the basement. She laughed and mocked me, calling me “clueless.” It wasn’t just betrayal—it was humiliation. I didn’t confront him. I poured a glass of wine, sat with my anger, and planned my response.

The next day, I visited a pet shop and came home with twenty feeder rats. That night, as he “worked out,” I let them loose. The screams started almost instantly. I locked the basement door and calmly recorded the chaos. “Hope you two like company,” I called out. That night, I packed a suitcase and printed divorce papers I’d prepared months ago.

The next morning, Evan was furious. “She had to run barefoot into the night!” he said. I handed him the divorce papers without a word. He stammered, trying to fix things. I just looked at him and said, “I did talk. You weren’t listening.”

We sold the house. I moved on.

Now, I live alone—and that’s more than enough.