Seven years, two kids, a life I thought was steady—that’s what I built with Jake. We had our squabbles, sure, but I believed we were a team. Last week shattered that. It was a typical afternoon—picking up the kids, dodging their chatter and crumbs, shooing them to their rooms for a breather. Walking in, I caught Jake’s voice from the living room, loud and proud with his crew. I shrugged—boys being boys—until his words stopped me cold: “Take notes, guys—I grabbed the ugly wife for home stuff and kids, then jet off with the cute ones. Master plan!”
My bag slipped, my heart raced, and I stood rooted as he bragged, “Jenny’s blind to it—thinks I’m perfect. I’ve got the house, the SUV, all lined up while I kick back.” His buddy snickered, “Dream life, man.” Jake gloated, “Easy—ugly here, gorgeous there.” “Ugly” echoed like a slap. I could’ve burst in, screamed—but I tiptoed upstairs, showered off the hurt, and stewed. That night, he waltzed around—tossed burgers on the grill, pecked my cheek, read the kids a story—like nothing. “You alright?” he asked, pouring milk for their bedtime. “Worn out,” I mumbled, hiding my storm.
Morning came, he left with a grin, and I sprang into action. Alone, I gathered ammo—pics of him with vacation flings, mushy chats, receipts spilling his secrets. It was like prepping a school project, nerves and all, but this was my life on the line. I needed him to feel this sting, to see his cockiness crumble. That night, I ditched dinner—grabbed tacos with the kids, dropped them at Grandma’s. Jake sauntered in, “Hey, hon—what’s cooking?” “A treat for you,” I smirked, guiding him to a chair with snacks and a drink. “What’s up?” he chuckled, popping the tab.
I flicked on the TV—slides started. First, tame trip shots, then him cuddling a redhead from his contacts, another with a blonde, laughing over wine. “Jenny, wait—” he sputtered. “Watch,” I said, icy. The proof stacked up. “Thought I’d miss it?” I asked. “Where’d you—” he gasped, rattled. “You’re careless, Jake. I let too much slide—Mom saw it—but trash-talking me to your boys? Low blow.” “Let’s fix this,” he trembled. “Oh, we will,” I said, ushering in my lawyer. “Who’s he?” Jake barked. “Your wake-up,” I replied. House, car, kid support—all mine now. “No way!” he yelled. “Your mess,” I countered.
He packed up next day, bunking with a friend, begging later to return. “I screwed up,” he cried. “You trashed us,” I said, firm. The kids ask about him, enjoy their visits, but we’re happier. Word is he’s scraping by, ditched by his flings. I’m good—picked up knitting, tried dating, and my kids shine. He thought he’d crush me—he just sank himself. No regrets here.
