I planned a sweet surprise, bringing my husband his favorite meal at work, only to learn he’d been fired months ago. This revelation shattered our 20-year marriage, but it also opened the door to a bold new chapter for me and my kids.
I packed a treat for Steven—meatloaf, rolls, and brownies—hoping to cheer him after long work hours. At his office, the guard looked confused. “Steven hasn’t been here for three months,” he said. My chest tightened. “That can’t be. He’s here daily.” He shook his head. “He was let go. Check with him.” Mortified, I left, my mind spinning. Why was Steven keeping secrets?
The next day, I watched Steven prepare for “work.” “How’s that new client?” I asked lightly. He scrolled his phone. “Same old,” he muttered. When he drove off, I called a cab. “Follow that red car,” I told the driver, who shrugged and drove. We followed Steven to a rough part of town where he parked and entered a grimy café. Through the window, I saw him with an older woman, then four more women joined. I snapped photos, puzzled.
I approached a woman as they left. “How do you know Steven?” She sneered, “He doesn’t get real talent. Good luck.” She walked away fast. That night, I showed Steven the photos. “Explain.” He paled. “You followed me, Karen?” “You lied for months!” I snapped. He sank down. “I quit to direct a play—my dream.” I was shocked. “A play? What about our bills? The kids’ savings?” He admitted, “I used $50,000 from our account.”
“Fifty thousand?” I shouted. “That’s our stability!” He insisted, “It’s my big break.” I said, “Stop the play or we’re done.” Steven looked at me, then said, “I can’t give up my dream.” Hurt, I yelled, “What about our family?” He argued, “I need this for myself!” I countered, “Not when it risks everything!” He said the play was his purpose. “You had us,” I said, tears falling. “Wasn’t that enough?” He turned away, firm. “I’m doing this.”
I felt resolved. “Then we’re over.” Steven moved out, and I fought through divorce proceedings to recover my savings. Our daughter, Sophie, asked, “Why not forgive Dad?” I said, “He broke our trust.” Steven invited me to his play’s debut. I went, but the sparse crowd and weak story let me down. I left early. A week later, Steven appeared, ragged. “The play failed,” he said. “I messed up.” I felt pity but stood firm. “That doesn’t fix us. We’re done.”
Closing the door, I felt relieved. I called my sister, planning a Spain trip. The next morning, I jogged past our old café, seeing Steven inside, writing. I kept running, choosing my future. At breakfast, I asked Sophie and Ethan, “What if we moved?” They were open, Ethan asking for a dog. I laughed, “Maybe.” Over coffee with my friend, I shared plans to finish my degree. Later, Steven texted about a Boston job. I agreed he should take it, focusing on the kids. As he walked away, I felt hopeful, ready for new beginnings with my family.
