When my bitter ex-husband showed up unannounced, demanding our kids’ toys, I thought I’d seen the worst of him. But nothing prepared me for what happened next when his father walked through the door. I never imagined that the man I once loved so fiercely would one day stand in our living room, yanking dolls and dinosaurs out of our kids’ arms like a stranger at a yard sale.
Here’s how we got to that point. Jake and I were married for eight years before things went belly up. In the beginning, he was charming, thoughtful, and the kind of guy who picked wildflowers on walks and left notes in the fridge.
But over time, that charm soured. He became impatient and distracted. Then there were excuses for everything: missed dinners, unanswered texts, and slowly, emotionally, he just faded from the picture.
It started with long hours at work. Then came the gym membership and the sudden interest in cologne I’d never bought. I asked him straight up once, “Is there someone else?” and he just scoffed.
“You’re being paranoid.”
But I wasn’t. It wasn’t just one affair. There had been others, exposed by his little flirtations and late-night phone calls I ignored.
I kept telling myself it was just a phase, and each time Jake insisted it would never happen again. I loved him, my first love, and I believed him. So, we tried therapy, and I wanted to forgive.
But the final straw? He missed our daughter Lacey’s seventh birthday dinner. He didn’t even bother calling her!
I was cleaning up cake crumbs when my friend Mia sent me a tagged link from Instagram. There he was, my loving husband, grinning at a bar, arm slung around a woman in a red dress. The caption read, “Work hard, play harder.” I recognized the woman as his co-worker, of course.
When he returned home, we got into a big fight! He tried to spin me a story about him “working late” until I showed him the Instagram post. He confessed that it had been going on “for only nearly a year,” and when that enraged me, he started begging.
So I just packed a bag for him and asked him to leave. I’d anticipated a big fallout, so I asked Mia if the kids could sleep at her place. The least I could do was try to leave them out of this with as few scars as possible.
I didn’t cry that night; I was just done. The divorce that followed was vicious. Jake contested everything, not because he needed any of it, but because he couldn’t stand to lose and was spiteful.
He wanted the house, which he didn’t get because my name was on the mortgage. He tried for full custody, even though he could barely remember our son’s teacher’s name. He even tried to keep the car seat because he said he “paid for it.”
In the end, I kept the basics, including the house, the kids, and the older sedan.
He took the air fryer and the leather recliner, like a man planning to live in a cave with frozen wings and Netflix. That was six months ago. Since then, I’ve done my best to rebuild for our two kids, including Ben, who’s five.
We live simply. I cut coupons, picked up tutoring gigs, and learned how to stretch a meal into three days. It’s not glamorous, but it’s filled with love and laughter, and we were happy.
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