Late one night, Rick exploded over a wrinkled shirt and overcooked rice, screaming I should be “kissing his feet.” But instead of breaking down, I made a decision: I was done. Three days later, a phone call would confirm that I’d made the right choice.
Rick wasn’t always like this. When we met, he was charming, thoughtful, and full of big promises—“I’ll build you a house with a porch swing and a killer sunset.” We married young, had two kids, and for a while, life was good. But somewhere along the way, the compliments turned into criticisms. Nothing I did was enough, from dinner to my clothes. The man I once loved had become a bitter stranger.
That night, when he shouted about his shirt and dinner, and accused me of being useless, something inside me quietly broke. I didn’t cry—I just felt relief. The next morning, I rehearsed my ultimatum: therapy or divorce. But Rick never came home.
On day three, his mom called. “Rick’s in the hospital,” she said. I rushed there, only to find him bruised, but calm. Then came the knock: police. Turned out, Rick had been in a car with Samantha—a woman under investigation for fraud. Their year-long affair unraveled right in front of me, confirmed by texts and camera footage.
I filed for divorce on Monday.
Now, it’s just me and the kids. The house is calmer. We eat cereal for dinner sometimes, and no one complains. Turns out, the real baggage wasn’t the kids or chaos—it was Rick. And I finally let it go.
