My ex-husband, Eric, used to say, “It’s just harmless fun.” He said it when he flirted with waitresses, when he “forgot” to take off his wedding ring at bars, and later, when I found the lipstick-stained shirt he swore was “a misunderstanding.”
For years, I believed him because it was easier than facing the truth. He had this charm that could melt any confrontation, this way of making you feel like you were overreacting. But when I caught him in bed with one of his coworkers, “harmless fun” lost all meaning.
After fifteen years of marriage, I filed for divorce. It wasn’t a decision made out of anger; it was survival. I was tired of being the joke in my own marriage.
He begged at first, of course. Promised to change. But when I didn’t budge, his apologies turned to venom.
By the time the divorce papers were signed, Eric had become a stranger, bitter, spiteful, and determined to make me regret walking away. We’d agreed I would keep the house since I’d paid for most of it with the inheritance from my late mother. Eric, in his usual pettiness, demanded a few “sentimental” items: his leather chair, the flat-screen TV, and his golf clubs.
I didn’t care. I wanted peace, not possessions. What I didn’t expect was what happened the day he came to “collect his things.”
It was a chilly Saturday morning in early November.
The divorce had been finalized only a week before. I was still adjusting to the silence of the house, no slamming doors, no sports blaring from the living room, no low hum of tension hovering in the air. I made coffee, turned on some music, and tried to remind myself that this new quiet was freedom, not loneliness.
When Eric pulled into the driveway, I braced myself. He didn’t even knock. He just walked in like he still owned the place, tracking mud onto the rug I’d just cleaned.
“Hey, Liz,” he said, voice too casual, too sharp around the edges. “You look good. Divorce suits you.”
I ignored the jab and handed him the boxes I’d packed with his things.
“Everything’s here. You can take it and go.”
But he didn’t leave. He wandered through the house like a tourist, running his hand along the bannister, tapping on the walls.
Then his eyes landed on the wallpaper in the living room, soft cream with subtle golden vines. It had taken me weeks to pick it out, and we’d argued endlessly about it at the time. He’d wanted something darker, more “masculine.” I’d wanted warmth.
I’d won that argument, but only because I’d paid for it myself. Now he stood there smirking, his arms folded. “You know, I paid for the installation,” he said.
I frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy who put it up? My buddy from work.
I paid him in cash.”
“So?”
“So, it’s mine.” He smiled, that condescending smirk that always made my skin crawl. “The wallpaper. I paid for it.”
I stared at him.
“You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m dead serious.” He turned and walked toward the garage, muttering something about getting “his tools.”
At first, I thought he was bluffing. Then I heard the sound, the unmistakable tearing of paper, long and deliberate. I ran into the living room.
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