Based on the hook in the image, here is the full conclusion to the story:
… He went dead pale because I hadn’t just cleaned up the house; I had cleaned him out of it.
When he walked through the door, smiling that well-rested, arrogant smile, he expected to find a tidy home, a recovered wife, and a happy baby. He probably expected me to apologize for being “difficult” while I was sick.
Instead, he walked into a living room that was completely empty of furniture, except for a folding table in the center and a mountain of cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. Every single box was labeled with his name.
“What is this?” he stammered, his smile dropping instantly. ” are we moving?”
“No,” I said, my voice ice-cold. I wasn’t feverish anymore. The heat had burned away the sickness, but it had also burned away the last shred of love I had for him. “We aren’t moving. You are.“
He laughed nervously, looking around for the TV, the sofa, the rugs. “Babe, come on. You’re being dramatic. I just needed a couple of nights of sleep. You know how hard I work. You were coughing so loud I couldn’t function.”
That was the moment I sprung the second part of the trap.
I stepped aside, revealing the person sitting behind me at the folding table. It was his mother. The same woman he had run to for shelter.
She wasn’t smiling. She looked furious.
See, while I was “burning up in bed,” I wasn’t just suffering. I was communicating. On the second night, when my fever broke enough for me to think clearly, I called his mom. He had told her a lie—he’d told her I kicked him out because I was moody. He hadn’t mentioned the 102-degree fever. He hadn’t mentioned the six-month-old baby screaming in my arms while I could barely stand.
When I told her the truth—and sent her a video of me struggling to feed our son while shaking with chills—she didn’t just take my side. She was horrified. She realized she was raising a man who would abandon his vulnerable family for a nap.
“Mom?” he squeaked.
“Don’t you ‘Mom’ me,” she snapped, standing up. “I raised you better than this. To leave your wife and child when they are sick? To come to my house and lie about it so I’d make you breakfast while she starved?”
She threw a manila envelope onto the table. “She’s done, and I don’t blame her.”
He looked at the envelope. Divorce papers.
“But… for a weekend?” he pleaded, looking back at me, his eyes wide with panic. “You’re divorcing me over one weekend?”
“I’m not divorcing you for the weekend,” I said calmly. “I’m divorcing you because when things got hard, your instinct wasn’t to protect us. It was to protect your sleep schedule. You showed me exactly who you are. And I realized that if I could survive that weekend alone, I can survive the rest of my life alone just fine.”
I pointed to the door. “The locks were changed this morning. Your boxes are packed. Your mom is here to help you load them into her car, because you aren’t staying here tonight. Or ever again.”
He stood there, pale and shaking, realizing that his “unbearable” discomfort had cost him his entire life. He tried to argue, but his mother simply pointed to a box labeled ‘Kitchen Stuff’ and said, “Pick it up, son. We’re leaving.”
I watched them go, locked the deadbolt, and finally—for the first time in a week—I slept like a baby.
