I never thought my marriage would end over a mattress. When Daniel showed up in a rented van, I expected anger, maybe demands for his things. Instead, he panicked. “Where is it?” he cried. “The mattress,” he said, his voice breaking. I told him it was gone, dragged to the curb with the rest of our marriage. He looked gutted, then sped off without another word. That night, I couldn’t shake his desperation. What had he hidden? By dawn, I was at the dump. The stench was overwhelming, but then I saw it—our mattress, half-buried in trash. I slit it open with shaking hands.

Cash. Bundles of it, stuffed deep inside. Tens of thousands. My fury flared. While I’d clipped coupons and skipped dinners, he’d hidden a fortune. The next morning, Daniel stormed back, wild-eyed. “Where is it?” I stepped onto the porch, holding a bundle. His face crumbled. “Inside the mattress,” I said.

He pleaded, claimed it was for “our future.” I laughed bitterly. “Our future? You cheated, you lied, and you hid this from me.” When he reached for me, I stepped back. “This is mine now. Payment for every sleepless night.”

He pounded on the door after I shut him out, but I didn’t answer. For the first time in weeks, I felt free. That mattress had been a symbol of betrayal. Now it was my victory.