Last week, I came home after a long grocery trip, arms full of bags. As I got closer, I heard voices on the porch: Mark and Emma, our neighbor’s 25-year-old daughter. They were laughing, and my name came up. Something told me to hide and listen.
“I can’t believe she hasn’t figured it out,” Emma giggled. Mark laughed. “She’s so busy with the kids and the house. She doesn’t even look like a woman anymore. You’re so much better, my princess.” Then they kissed.
I stood there, frozen, gripping the grocery bags. I was angry and humiliated, but I remained calm. I didn’t confront them. Instead, I went inside through the back door and started planning.
For the next three days, I played the part perfectly. I cooked his favorite meals. I cleaned his laundry. I was the invisible, “non-woman” he thought I was. But while he was at work, I was moving money. I was speaking to a lawyer. And I was packing. Not my things. His.
On Friday, I told Mark we were having a neighborhood barbecue. “I invited Emma and her parents,” I said sweetly. “Since we’re all so close.” Mark smirked, thinking he was getting away with murder. “Great idea, babe.”
The dinner was tense. Emma kept shooting Mark secret smiles. Mark kept kicking her foot under the table. When it was time for dessert, I stood up and tapped my wine glass with a spoon. “I’d like to make a toast,” I announced. Everyone looked up. Mark smiled arrogantly. “To my husband, Mark,” I began. “Who thinks I’m too busy with the house to notice he’s sleeping with our neighbor.”
The silence was instant. Emma choked on her water. Her parents dropped their forks. Mark’s face went from smug to terrified in a split second. “Honey, what are you—”
“And to Emma,” I continued, turning to her. “He called you his ‘princess,’ right? Well, I hope you have a castle for him, because as of an hour ago, I changed the locks on this one. The house is in my name. The car is in my name. And the bank account you two were planning to spend? Frozen.”
I reached under the table and pulled out a manila envelope, tossing it onto Mark’s plate. “Happy Anniversary. Those are divorce papers.”
Emma’s dad stood up, furious, and dragged a crying Emma out of the house. Mark tried to stutter an apology, but I just pointed to the door. “You said I didn’t look like a woman anymore,” I said, smiling. “You’re right. Tonight, I look like your ex-wife. Get out.”
