For ten years, I held our home together — raising kids, working, managing everything — while Julian, my husband, stayed hands-off. We were a team, or so I thought. Until one ordinary afternoon shattered that illusion. After a grueling grocery run, I pulled into the driveway and spotted Julian on the porch — laughing intimately with Elise, our 25-year-old neighbor. Their banter turned cruel: jokes about how I’d “let myself go,” digs at my gray hair. Then, they kissed.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I walked in the back door, groceries in hand, and made a quiet vow: I’d get my revenge — on my terms. That night, I combed through Julian’s texts and behavior. The signs were all there. He had chosen someone else. But I wouldn’t confront him in anger. I’d outsmart them.
