Here is a full, satisfying conclusion to the story:
The first thing I did was put the ice cream in the freezer. It seems like a small thing, but that routine action grounded me. If I had stormed out there screaming, I would have looked exactly like the “crazy, unkempt wife” Mark was painting me out to be. I needed to be colder. I needed to be lethal.
For the next two weeks, I put on the performance of a lifetime. I washed Mark’s clothes, I cooked his favorite meals, and I smiled when he came home late smelling of a perfume that wasn’t mine. I played the part of the “oblivious, busy mother” perfectly. But while Mark was showering, I was cloning his phone data to my laptop. While he was sleeping, I was photographing the texts where he called her his “princess” and mocked my post-baby body. I found the credit card statements showing dinners, hotels, and a diamond necklace—all paid for with our joint savings.
The timing couldn’t have been better. Mark’s 35th birthday was coming up that Saturday.
I organized a backyard barbecue. I invited everyone: his family, his college friends, my friends, and of course, our neighbors—Emma’s parents. And naturally, I insisted Emma come, too. “She’s such a help with the kids,” I told Mark sweetly. He looked thrilled, thinking he was getting away with having his mistress and his wife in the same place.
On the day of the party, I didn’t wear my usual jeans and t-shirt. I hired a babysitter for the morning and went to a salon. I blew out my hair, put on full makeup, and wore a fitted red dress that I hadn’t touched in years. When I walked into the backyard, the silence was audible. Mark’s jaw literally dropped. I looked like a woman, alright. I looked like the woman who was out of his league.
The party was in full swing. Mark was holding a beer, laughing with his buddies, and Emma was hovering nearby, looking nervous in my presence.
“Everyone, gather round!” I shouted, clapping my hands. “It’s time for presents!”
Mark beamed, stepping forward. “Babe, you really went all out,” he said, trying to wrap an arm around my waist. I sidestepped him smoothly.
“I did,” I said, my voice projecting clearly across the silent yard. “You know, Mark recently said that I’ve been so busy with the house and kids that I’ve lost myself. That I don’t figure things out.” I looked directly at Emma, who went pale. “But actually, Mark, I’ve been very busy figuring everything out.”
I picked up a large, beautiful gift box from the table and handed it to him. “Happy Birthday.”
“Wow, heavy,” he joked, tearing off the paper. He opened the lid.
Inside wasn’t a watch or a gadget. It was a stack of printed screenshots—hundreds of them—blown up to A4 size. And resting on top was a thick document stapled in blue paper.
Mark froze. He stared into the box, his face turning a sickly shade of grey.
“What is this?” he whispered.
“Go ahead,” I said, my voice ice cold. “Show Emma’s parents what you’ve been doing with their ‘innocent’ daughter.”
Emma’s father stepped forward, confused, and looked into the box. He gasped, snatching a photo of Mark and Emma at a hotel. The backyard erupted in murmurs. Emma burst into tears and tried to run, but her mother caught her arm, looking absolutely mortified.
“Those represent the money you spent,” I continued, addressing Mark, who was now trembling. “And the document on top? Those are divorce papers. I’ve already moved my half of the savings into a separate account. The house is in my name—thanks, Dad—so you have exactly one hour to pack your bags and get off my property.”
“Dania, wait, it’s not—” Mark stammered, reaching for me.
“Don’t,” I snapped. “Go be with your princess. I’m sure she can support you, since you just lost your access to my bank account.”
I turned to the guests, who were staring in shock. “Cake is in the kitchen for anyone who wants to stay. Mark is leaving.”
I turned around and walked back into the house, head held high, my red dress flowing behind me. I had never felt more like a woman in my life. I was free.
