The photos started innocently enough, scenic shots from his trips. But as the images changed, Ethan’s smile faded. There he was, arm in arm with another woman, followed by more damning evidence.
“Sarah,” he stammered, his face pale. “I can explain—”
“Sit down,” I interrupted. “We’re not done yet.”
The final slide wasn’t just photos but a detailed account of his finances and infidelity. And waiting by the door? My divorce lawyer.
“This,” I said calmly, “is where it ends, Ethan.”
The lawyer outlined the consequences: the house, a gift from my parents, was mine. The car, also in my name, stayed with me. Child support would eat up most of his paycheck.
“You can’t do this, Sarah!” he shouted, desperation creeping into his voice.
“Actually,” I said, smiling coldly, “I already have.”
Ethan moved out the next day, reduced to couch surfing and struggling to make ends meet. His “pretty ones” vanished once his resources dried up. Meanwhile, I thrived.
Rediscovering my love for embroidery, I found joy in simple pleasures and even ventured on a few dates. Most importantly, my kids and I rebuilt a home filled with love, respect, and peace.
Ethan thought he could break me, but all he did was shatter his own world. And honestly? I don’t feel bad for him.
