“Here’s the secret, guys,” Ethan said.

“You marry someone who does the work—raising the kids, running the house—and then you keep the pretty ones for fun. Sarah doesn’t have a clue.”

“She thinks I’m a saint,” he laughed.

“Meanwhile, I’ve got the house, the car, and my freedom. Best of all? She’s happy keeping it all afloat while I enjoy myself.”

My chest tightened, but instead of storming in to confront him, I stepped back silently and slipped upstairs. I forced a smile, keeping my fury hidden.

After Ethan came home that evening, clueless as ever, I had organized a “special surprise.”

“Hey, babe,” he said with his usual smug grin.

“What’s for dinner?”

“Oh, I’ve got something even better planned,”

The photos started innocently enough, scenic shots from his trips.

“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.

“Actually,” I said, smiling coldly, “I already have.”

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.