Rick always wanted praise—for dinner, for clean shirts, for simply existing. One night, his rage over a wrinkled sleeve became a demand: worship him. I didn’t argue. I just mentally walked out.
Three days later, karma drove a fast car. He crashed—with another woman beside him. Samantha. Fraud suspect, secret affair, police evidence—proof of betrayal stretching back a year. While I held our home together, he was building a lie.
In the hospital, he begged. Apologies, tears, promises. His mother called him “broken” and tried to guilt me. But guilt is powerless once you’ve claimed your self-worth.
That Monday, I filed for divorce.
Now, peace lives in my house. Cereal dinners. Quiet laundry-folding. Laughter with my kids. I thought motherhood was the chaos—turns out, Rick was the storm.
Letting him go? It wasn’t just brave. It was freedom.
