Cheating Wife Wants To Get Pregnant From Other Guy

Cheating Wife Wants To Get Pregnant From Other Guy & Pass It As My Baby. I Filed For Divorce. Reddit

Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/true-cheating-stories-2025--5953081/support.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:06):
I was never one for fate, for all that mystical
nonsense about omens and signs. But if you pressed me,
put a colt to my head and demanded I pinpoint
the exact moment the flimsy scaffolding of my life began
to buckle. I'd finger the day that support beam snapped
at the construction site. My name is Everett, forty two
years old, and up until that greasy Tuesday, I'd cultivated

(00:28):
the illusion that my existence was built on something solid,
something approaching stable ground. There was Barbara, my wife, thirty nine.
She could turn a phrase with a viper's wit when
she felt like it, which wasn't often with me anymore. More.
Often she was a locked door, a blank wall. Then
there was Gage, her son, my step son, sixteen. He'd

(00:48):
drifted into my life when he was eight, a sullen
little cloud of preteen angst already forming. I married Barbara,
and by default I got him. From day one. I
was the intruder, the guy who didn't belong in their tight,
slightly dysfunctional orbit. Still I put on a show, built
him a goddamn tree house he used twice, tried to

(01:09):
teach him to fish. The little prick more interested in
his phone batting cages a few times my attempt at
some rockwlly in fantasy. We had moments, sure, fleeting instances
where I thought, maybe this isn't a complete disaster. But
underneath it all, the whole blended family charade, something was festering,
a rot. We all pretended not to smell. Eight years
Barbara and I eight years of a life constructed more

(01:31):
from the bricks of routine and obligation than any genuine affection.
I told myself. It was enough morning coffee, same stale
inside jokes that had lost their punchlines years ago, date
nights at the same mediocre Italian place where the waiter
knew my order by heart. We didn't fight much, We
didn't do much of anything. It was a beige existence,

(01:51):
comfortable in its sheer, soul crushing predictability. In hindsight, that
was the damn problem, wasn't it. I'd convinced myself. This
sterile peace was happiness that my paycheck was a substitute
for actual connection. If her son was a surly little
fool who wouldn't give me the time of day, well
that was just teenagers, right. I ignored every goddamn warning flare,

(02:14):
the increasingly frequent girl's weekends where she'd come back looking
more exhausted than refreshed, The way she'd cradle her phone
like a lover, whispering into it late at night, always
about some crisis at work. I needed a catastrophic failure,
a literal two by four to the skull, to jolt
me out of myself imposed stupor and buoy Did I

(02:36):
get it? The beam collapsing wasn't a gentle affair. It
was a twelve gage blast of concrete and steel. My
legs shattered, tibia, fibula, the whole damn chorus line. Three
ribs cracked like dry twigs, one puncturing a lung nearly
bled out on a pile of rebar and dust. The
doctors blessed their patronizing hearts, kept patting my arm, telling

(02:59):
me how I was lucky. I was drowning in a
sea of agony. My leg hoisted in traction like some
grotesque piece of modern art. Tubes snaked from my nose
my chest, monitoring my every pathetic breath. Nights in that
sterile cage blurred into a monotonous hellscape of pain. Morphine
induced hazes, the distant squeak of gurney's and the incessant,

(03:22):
infuriating beep of machines tethering me to consciousness. My sister Bernice,
she was there every damn day, homemade soup that tasted
like ashes in my mouth, updates on Curtis, my dog,
Probably the only creature in my house who genuinely gave
a crap about me. She'd stay through the worst of it,

(03:43):
when the pain meds wore off and the screaming started
in my head. She was my anchor in that crap storm.
And Barbara, my loving wife of eight years, vanished, poof gone.
Not the first day when they weren't sure I'd make
it through the night, Not the fifth, when I was
lucid enough to ask for her. Not the tenth forty

(04:03):
goddamn minutes that's the drive, forty minutes she couldn't spare
for her husband, who nearly cashed in his chips. I
tried calling the hospital phone, heavy and slick in my
sweating palm. The first time she answered with a groan,
something mumbled about gauge having a soccer game. Can't make
it ef you know how it is the second time
a Kurt Curtis is sick. Took him to the vet,

(04:25):
can't leave him. The third, fourth, fifth time straight to voicemail,
her professionally cheerful message a cruel mockery. Around day five,
a sliver of actual panic wormed its way through the
pain and resentment. Maybe she was in an accident, Maybe
something terrible had happened. Bernice, Ever, the pragmatist, just shook
her head, her expression a mixture of pity and weary resignation. Everett,

(04:50):
you know Barbara, she said, her voice gentle but firm.
She does what benefits Barbara, always has, always will. Deep
down I knew she was right, but some pathetic, hopeful
part of me still clung to the idea of a
reasonable explanation. A week bled into ten days, ten days
into two weeks, two weeks into three. The nurses, initially

(05:11):
all brisk efficiency, started giving me those looks, you know,
the ones, the pitying glances, the overly solicitous offers of
an extra pudding cup. Tessa, one of the younger nurses,
kinder than most, would sometimes perch on the edge of
my bed offer a hand that felt surprisingly steady. She
never asked directly why my wife was a ghost, but

(05:32):
the question hung in the air between us, thick and
suffocating as the antiseptic smell of the ward. It was
nearly four weeks, four goddamn weeks of staring at acoustic
ceiling tiles, listening to the symphony of suffering around me,
before I finally got Barbara on the phone. Her voice
was breezy, casual, like she was talking to a distant

(05:52):
acquaintance she'd bumped into at the grocery store. So I
croaked my throat raw, thinking of gracing me with your
presence anytime soon? Or are you waiting for the funeral?
A beat of silence, then, honestly, Everett, you're not worth
the gas money right now. Her tone was flat, devoid
of any emotion, like she was discussing the price of milk.

(06:15):
Just die fast or heal quick. Okay, I'm tired of
this whole in between thing. It's inconvenient. The phone slipped
from my numb fingers, clattering onto the scratchy hospital blanket.
Her voice, tinny and distant, continued to chirp from the receiver.
Then a different voice, Gauge's unmistakably smug, adolescent sneer yeah,

(06:36):
we don't miss you, old man. Click. I just lay there.
The world tilted, then slowly righted itself. The steady rhythmic
beep of the heart monitor was the only sound, a cold,
mechanical confirmation that I was, despite their apparent wishes, still alive.
Let me tell you, morphine can dull the edges of
a shattered bone, but it doesn't touch that kind of

(06:57):
a visceration, that kind of cold, calculated cruelty. I spent
the next few nights wide awake, the pain in my
leg a dull throb compared to the gaping wound in
my chest. Every memory, every interaction with Barbara, every dismissive
sneer from Gage, played on a loop in my head.
How had I been so freaking blind? How would I
miss the grand canyon sized cracks spiderwebbing through the foundation

(07:20):
of my marriage, my life. Each day Bernice, bless her
loyal heart, brought me not just soup, but another nail
for the coffin of my denial. Bank statements with gaping
holes where our money used to be, strange significant withdrawals,
receipts from jewelry stores I'd never set foot in, plane,
tickets to can Kun, a solo trip for Barbara, apparently
booked while I was fighting off pneumonia in an ICU.

(07:42):
She was siphoning off our joint accounts, our future, feathering
her nest and as I'd soon discover the nest of
someone else. A neighbor, Silvio some slick, recently divorced Prick,
who'd moved in six months prior. Apparently he'd been helping
her out, fixing all the little problems around the head
while I was busy trying not to die. The image

(08:03):
of him, hands all over my tools, my house, my wife,
sent a fresh wave of bile into my throat. Think
about it, f Bernice said, arms crossed, shoving another damning
bank statement under my nose. Her eyes were hard. While
you're lying here, literally fighting for your life, she's out
there laughing it up with this, this jigglow, setting up

(08:26):
a new life with your money. Are you just going
to lie here and take it? Let her bleed you
dry and dance on your grave. She knew me, knew
that beneath the layers of complacency I'd wrapped myself in,
there was a core of something harder, something that, once ignited,
wouldn't be easily extinguished. But first I had to get
the hell out of that hospital. My doctor, a well

(08:46):
meaning but overly cautious man, insisted on at least another
three weeks infection risk. He droned. My leg was a
latticework of metal rods and pins. Breathing was still a
conscious effort. Tessa, the nurse, tried her gentle persuasion it please,
it's not safe, you need monitoring. But I'd had enough
enough of the pity, enough of the helplessness, enough of

(09:08):
being a god damn patient. I signed myself out ama
a scrawled signature of defiance. Bernice, her lips pressed into
a thin line of disapproval, but her eyes understanding, drove
me to a staybridge sweets, an extended stay hotel, anonymous bleak,
but mine. It was time to claw back some semblance
of control, some iota of power in the wreckage of

(09:30):
my own life. Are you sure about this, ev Bernice asked,
her voice laced with genuine concern as she helped me
hobble into the sterile room. What if something goes wrong,
You're not exactly in fighting shape staying in that bed, Bernice,
I rasped, sinking onto the stiff mattress. That's what's wrong.
Every day there I feel more like a sufferer, a casualty.

(09:53):
Out Here, at least I can start fighting back. The
first night in that soulless hotel room was a special
kind of hell. Keeping machines, no hushed footsteps of nurses
in the corridor, just me, my throbbing, braced leg, the
stale smell of industrial cleaner, and the crushing inescapable knowledge
that the woman I'd shared my bed with for eight

(10:13):
years was actively robbing me blind and screwing another man,
probably in that very bed. The rage was a living
thing coiling in my gut. Hot and venomous days were
spent on the phone, a cheap burner I'd had Bernice pickup,
first a new bank account solely in my name, then
securing documents, birth certificate, social Security card, anything an unscrupulous

(10:35):
witch might try to leverage. I didn't tell Barbara i'd
left the hospital when she bothered to text, usually a
perfunctory how you, I'd reply with a vague still here,
doctor say a while longer. Her response a thumbs up emoji.
Damn classic Barbara, if it wasn't about her, or if
she didn't have a pre rehearsed script. She defaulted to
indifferent silence or digital platitudes. The real ammunition, the spark

(11:00):
that lit the fuse of my meticulously planned offensive, came
from Bernice. Barbara was planning a trip Nashville, a girl's
weekend she'd apparently announced to anyone who'd listen. I knew,
with a certainty that settled cold and hard in my stomach,
that girl's weekend was code. Sylvia would be there, or
some other distraction, paid for with my money. That was

(11:21):
it d Day, the day i'd unleash what i'd grimly
dubbed operations Scorched Earth. This wasn't about getting my stuff back.
This was about erasure. This was about making her feel
a fraction of the desolation I'd felt in that hospital bed.
This wasn't an impulse. This was cold, calculated strategy. I
met a lawyer, Reggie Guy looked more like a roadie

(11:44):
for a defunct rock band, jeans faded concert tee sneakers,
but his eyes were sharp and his reputation was sharper.
He showed up at my hotel, no airs, just a
battered briefcase and a tablet. So he said, scrolling through
something on his screen, not even looking at me. Divorce
or just want to scare her straight with the separation divorce.

(12:05):
I bit out the word, tasting like acid, and.

Speaker 2 (12:08):
I wanted to hurt.

Speaker 1 (12:10):
Reggie finally looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in
his eyes. All right, in this state, marital assets are
split fifty to fifty. But hurt, that's a different kind
of currency. We can be methodical, we can be precise,
We can be legal. You want to strip the house, fine,
make a list everything you owned before you shackled yourself
to her, that's yours, no contest, joint property. We itemize,

(12:34):
we value. We take your half, no more, no less
on paper. But the impact, that's where the art comes in.
He smirked, a thin, humorless smile. He understood hours. I
spent hours on those goddamn lists. My handwriting shaky from
a combination of residual weakness and simmering fury. Bernice, my

(12:55):
loyal soldier, did reconnaissance. Slipped into the house one afternoon
when barbar was at work, probably with Silvio, and took pictures, furniture, electronics, silverware,
even the goddamn lawnmower. I cataloged everything. The living room
set we'd bought together. She liked the color, I hated it.

(13:15):
The bedroom suite I'd owned long before she'd sunk her
claws into me half. The kitchen appliances. Reggie's voice, cool
and precise in my ear, blender, toaster, microwave, take one,
leave one, or take the expensive ones. The big screen
TV I'd bought for Super Bowl parties. She never attended
My old recliner, the one she always complained about. My

(13:37):
tools from the garage, My tools, not Silvio's playthings. The
only hesitation, the only flicker of something other than cold rage,
was Gage's room years. I'd wasted years trying to connect
with that sullen little crap. But then I remembered his
voice on the phone, We don't miss you, oh Man.
And the fancy gaming system, the one i'd shelled out

(13:58):
of fortune for last Christmas, hoping to buy a slip
liver of his approval. Reggie had been clear, your funds
bought it during the marriage. It's a marital asset. If
it wasn't a clear gift to him alone, with documentation,
take it if you want, send a message, oh I
wanted to send a message, all right, a big flashing
neon sign of a message. So the console went on
the list. Guilt a tiny, insignificant tremor, drowned out by

(14:21):
the coffony of betrayal. We booked the movers for a
Saturday smack in the middle of Barbara's Nashville Girls trip. Swift, merciless, clinical.
I was still unsteady on my feet, relying heavily on crutches,
my leg a dull, persistent ache. Bernice would supervise the
heavy lifting, but I had to be there. I needed

(14:42):
to witness it, to breathe the air of my own liberation,
to watch the physical manifestation of my old life being dismantled.
Saturday eight am, the moving truck, an enormous, impersonal beast,
rumbled to a stop in front of the house I
hadn't laid eyes on in over two months. As the
movers burly and impact hopped out, Bernice shot me a look,

(15:02):
last chance to reconsider Everett pull the plug. Her voice
was light, but her eyes were serious. I've come too
far to turn back, now, Bee, I said, my voice
rougher than I intended. Burn it all down, walking through
that front door was like stepping into a stranger's life. Curtis,
my loyal mutt, came skittering down the stairs, nails scrabbling

(15:25):
on the hardwood, a joyous, yelping cannonball of fur. He
damn near knocked me off my crutches, licking my face,
whining his forgiveness for my absence. God, I'd missed him.
The house itself disturbingly unnaturally tidy, not a speck of dust.
The woman who considered vacuuming a form of medieval torture

(15:45):
had apparently discovered domesticity for her lover. The bitterness was
a corrosive burn in my chest. She'd transformed my home
into a love nest for him. Systematically, we began my
pre marriage bedroom set, the heavy oaks she'd always despised.
The coffee table we'd bought, a joint decision. I now
regretted half the kitchen crap as per Reggie's cold calculus,

(16:07):
the TV, my recliner, every tool, every fishing rod, every
book that was mine. The movers were efficient, their faces stony,
like a swat team clearing a hostile building. They worked
from my itemized list, precise and uncaring, barber's vanity, her
clothes spilling from the closet, her ridiculous collection of knick knacks,
all left untouched. I didn't want her tainted possessions. I

(16:28):
wanted to leave her with the shell of what she destroyed.
Pizza on the living room floor, surrounded by a landscape
of boxes and gaping emptiness. The silence in the half
empty house was massive, broken only by the rustle of
packing tape and the occasional grunt from the movers. One
of them, a young guy with tired eyes, finally spoke,
rough day man, been there. I just nodded, stuffing another

(16:52):
slice of greasy pepperoni into my mouth, focusing on the spice,
the salt, anything but the gnawing void where my marriage
used to be. By seven, the truck was loaded, a
monument to eight years of carefully curated resentment. I locked
the front door behind me, the click of the dead
bolt unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. Should I have
left a note, a pithy one liner. No, Let her

(17:15):
walk into the void, Let her confront the echoing emptiness
I'd orchestrated. That was the only poetry I was interested in.
Back at the stay Bridge, which I was already starting
to think of as my new temporary fortress. It was
organized chaos, boxes piled high, furniture draped in blankets. The
pain in my leg, ignored for hours, screamed for attention. Exhaustion,

(17:38):
bone deep and profound, threatened to pull me under. But
beneath it a dark, unfamiliar thrill, a sense of triumph.
I'd struck the first significant blow in a war I
hadn't started, but was damn well going to finish. I
slept that night on a bare mattress, wedged between boxes
of my clothes. Curtis curled at my feet, his warm
presence a small, solid comfort in the vast empty I'd

(18:00):
timed it perfectly. Barbara was due back Sunday evening. I
braced myself, expecting the deluge calls, texts, threats, tears, the
full Barbara melodrama. But even I wasn't quite prepared for
the sheer, unadulterated fury that erupted my burner. Phone lit
up around seven pm, a rapid fire succession of texts.
Where the hell is everything?

Speaker 2 (18:21):
Everett?

Speaker 1 (18:21):
If this is some kind of sick joke, It's not funny,
You goddamn monster.

Speaker 2 (18:25):
You took Curtis. That's my dog.

Speaker 1 (18:28):
You can't do this.

Speaker 2 (18:29):
I'll have you arrested.

Speaker 1 (18:31):
Call me right now, you cowardly fool Oregon. You'll regret
the day you were born. I read them, a strange
calm settling over me. The predicted storm had arrived. My
heart hammered a dull, steady beat against my ribs. She'd
found it. The phone began to ring, a shrill, incessant shriek.

(18:52):
I watched it vibrate on the cheap nightstand for a
long moment, then switched it off. There was nothing she
could say that I wanted or needed to hear. Bernice. However, ever,
my Eyes and Ears had a doorbell camera and stalled
across the street from my old house just in case.
She sent me a short video clip. Barbara standing in
the driveway, an empty leash dangling from her hand, screaming

(19:13):
at the vacant windows, her voice a raw, ragged tear
in the quiet suburban evening.

Speaker 2 (19:18):
He took everything. The fool took my dog.

Speaker 1 (19:21):
He can't do this to me. Her performance was oscar worthy,
hair artfully disheveled, arms flailing for the benefit of any
curious neighbors. I watched it twice, a cold smile. Touching
my lips, my hand found Curtis's thick fur. Yeah, buddy,
I whispered, she never deserved you anyway. I went dark,
ignored the escalating threats, the increasingly unhinged voicemails. Reggie, my

(19:46):
rock and roll lawyer, was a bastion of calm, reassurance,
your golden Everett. Everything taken was documented as pre marital
or your justifiable half of joint assets. She can scream
all she wants, she can't touch you. We filed for
divorce the next morning. The petition was served to a stunned,
furious Barbara at her workplace. The humiliation, I imagined was exquisite.

(20:09):
About a week later, Gage texted me a single, unpunctuated word, Hey.
My first instinct was to block the number, to sever
that tie completely, but a morbid curiosity, a desire to
see just how deep the rot went, won out. I
told him if he had something to say, he could
damn well say it to my face. He showed up
at the Staybridge the following Sunday, shoulders slumped, his usual

(20:32):
teenage swagger noticeably absent. He mumbled something about how screwed up.
Everything was at home. How Barbara was a walking inferno
of rage. How Sylvia was suddenly around all the time,
acting like he owned the place, like he was the
new man of the house. Then the kicker Mom. She
wanted me to say that stuff to you on the phone,
he muttered, staring at his scuffed sneakers. That day when

(20:55):
you were in the hospital, she was pissed you kept calling,
said you were being a pain in the a. She
told me if I said we didn't miss you, if
I made you feel like crap, she'd get me that
new VR headset. I just stared at him, the cold
fury and my gut twisted tightened. Part of me, the
part that was still raw and bleeding, wanted to throw

(21:16):
him out on his a. But he was sixteen, a
pawn in his mother's manipulative games, or just a chip
off the old block. Well, I said, my voice flat,
devoid of any sympathy. Did you get the VR system gauge?
He looked up, a flicker of defiance in his eyes
quickly extinguished. Yeah, that one word. It told me everything.

(21:37):
Barbara hadn't just abandoned me, She'd actively poisoned her own
son against me, bribed him to twist the knife. It
didn't matter anymore. I'm fresh out of room for manipulation's gauge,
I said my voice, like ice from her or from you.
A few days later, the universe, in its infinite capacity
for black humor, decided to throw silvia in my path.
I was at the grocery store, limping down the aisle

(21:59):
with a carticking out frozen dinners and bruised fruit. The
bachelor's banquet, And there he was, by the goddamn deli counter,
oozing smarmy charm as he ordered his pershido, muscular, tanned,
wearing a shirt two sizes too small, A sleazy, self
satisfied smirk plastered on his face. He spotted me. The

(22:19):
smirk widened. He sauntered over all false bottom me. Hey there,
Champ Everett right. He stuck out a hand. I ignored it.
Heard you redecorated the place. Little dramatic, wasn't it? Stripping
at bear like that? He spoke as if we were
old pals discussing a minor sporting infraction. My blood, already simmering,

(22:40):
began to boil. I gripped the handle of my cart,
knuckles white. That's none of your goddamn business, I said,
my voice low tight. He chuckled a greasy, unpleasant sound. Relax, man,
Barbara's got a bit of a mouth on her, you know,
telling everyone you're unstable, losing it. Guess the accident really
did a number on you. Legs still giving you trouble.

(23:01):
He glanced pointedly at my braced leg, the smirk never
leaving his face. The air crackled. Patrons nearby were starting
to notice they're shopping slowing. You keep Barbara's name out
of your damn mouth, I growled. The restraint I was
clinging to starting to fray, and you stay the hell
away from me and from what's mine. He leaned in,

(23:22):
his voice dropping to a conspiratorial taunting whisper, his breath
smelling of cheap cologne and something rotten. Oh, I think
you'll find she's not yours anymore, pal hasn't been for
a long time, And between you and me, you're not
half the man you think you are. Now that she's
shall we say available, we'll see who she really prefers.

(23:42):
He winked. That was it the snap. I didn't think
I reacted. My grocery's forgotten. I lunged, not a punch,
not something that could be easily construed as attack. I
shoved him hard. All the rage, the betrayal, the helplessness
of the past few months channeled in that one violent expulsion.
He stumbled back, surprised, arms flailing, crashing into a towering

(24:06):
display of potato chips. Bags exploded, raining down around him
like greasy confetti. What the hell man? He sputtered, eyes
wide with shock and a dawning fury. And then the
moment that still plays in my head on a loop,
a moment of pure, unadulterated, cathartic release. I slapped him

(24:27):
open palm, a crack that echoed through the brightly lit
aisle like a bang. His head snapped to the side,
a collective gasp from the onlookers, a stunned, perfect silence
that I hissed, my voice trembling with adrenaline. Is for
trespassing on my wife, on my life. I turned my
back on him, leaving him amidst the ruins of the

(24:47):
chip display, one hand clapped to his cheek. A flustered
manager rushed over, babbling about security, about calling the police.
Sylvia was dabbing at his lip a smear of red,
probably just the force of the impact, not actual blood,
but the humiliation was palpable. Sir, do you want to
leave quietly? Or do I need to involve the authorities,
the manager stammered, looking from me to Silvio. I'm done here.

(25:10):
I bit out, grabbing my crutches. I hobbled out, leaving
my cart, leaving the whispers and stars behind. My heart
hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. As I
fumbled with my car keys. I saw Silvio storm out
of the store, already on his phone, face contorted in rage,
calling Barbara no doubt, let him. Let them both stew

(25:31):
in the mess they'd made. I was past caring. I
was just getting started. Days crawled by. Physical therapy was
a witch, each session a fresh reminder of my body's betrayal. Tessa,
the nurse from the hospital, had transferred to the outpatient clinic.
We ran into each other, coffee happened. She tiptoed around

(25:52):
the subject of my imploding marriage, her sympathy a gentle balm.
I hadn't realized I craved when I finally laid out
the sordid details. The band, the affair, the financial ruin.
She just shook her head, her expression a mixture of
sorrow and disbelief. Everett, she said softly, her hand briefly
covering mine. I am so so sorry that happened to you.

(26:14):
No one deserves that. Her kindness was a stark contrast
to Barbara's casual cruelty. But I was a goddamn minefield
of unresolved anger, nowhere near ready for anything resembling human connection. Still,
it was nice not feeling entirely alone in the wreckage.
Then Barbara, ever the drama queen, decided to escalate another
trip Nashville, again, her moving on party. She called it

(26:37):
a celebratory middle finger to me and our collapsing marriage,
funded no doubt by the dregs of our joint savings.
Money the courts hadn't yet frozen. Bernice, my ever vigilant sister,
had flagged more suspicious transfers. The rage, which had momentarily
subsided into a low simmer, roared back to life. If
she wanted to swam off to Nashville for a screw

(26:59):
you every tour, fine letter, But this time I wouldn't
be waiting by the phone. This time, I'd be there
at the house, our house, still legally speaking, waiting to
greet her. I was done hiding, done being the sufferer. Reggie,
cool as ever, talked me through the legalities. Properties still

(27:21):
in both your names. You have every right to be there, Everett.
She can't claim trespassing. Just try not to commit any
actual felonies. Okay, he'd even had a smirk playing on
his lips. Early Saturday morning, I parked my battered car
down the street, out of sight, still limping, still reliant
on a cane now instead of crutches, but fueled by

(27:41):
a cold heart resolve. I wanted to see her face.
I wanted her to understand unequivocally that the doormat she'd
wiped her feet on for eight years was gone. She
came home a day early Sunday afternoon, rolling her suitcase
up the walkway, humming to herself a picture of care
free liberation. I stepped out from the side of the house,

(28:03):
Curtis trotting calmly at my heel. She stopped dead. Her
eyes widened, then narrowed, like she'd seen a particularly unwelcome ghost.

Speaker 2 (28:12):
What in the absolute hell are you doing here?

Speaker 1 (28:14):
She hissed, her voice tight, the suitcase thudding to the pavement.

Speaker 2 (28:18):
You can't just show up. This is my home.

Speaker 1 (28:22):
I leaned on my cane, affecting a calm I didn't
entirely feel. Actually, Barbara, it's our home. Name's still on
the deed. Remember? Or did that slip your mind while
you were blowing through our rapidly dwindling savings in Nashville
with your boy toy. Her attempt at a sneer faltered,
replaced by a cornered, almost feral look.

Speaker 2 (28:40):
I needed a break.

Speaker 1 (28:41):
Gauge is driving me up the wall, and you, your
whole disappearing act, your silent treatment, a harsh, humorless laugh
escaped me, my disappearing act, Lady, I was in a
damn hospital bed half dead while you were auditioning my replacement.
Then you told me and I quote to die fast
or heal quick because my continued existence was inconveniencing your

(29:05):
social life. Does that ring any bells, Barbara? Or has
the Tennessee moonshine addled your memory? She rolled her eyes,
a flash of her old dismissive arrogance. Oh, stop playing
the goddamn martyr, Everett. It's not a good look. If
you'd been a better husband, a more attentive partner. Maybe,
don't I cut her off, my voice dropping to a
dangerous level. Don't you dare try to pin your crappy

(29:27):
behavior on me. You spent months, maybe longer, screwing Silvio
behind my back while I was working my a off
to pay for this house, for your shopping spreeze, for
your son's endless list of wants. Her mouth tightened into
a thin, ugly line. You can't prove a thing, I shrugged,
a casual gesture that belied the inferno raging inside me

(29:47):
doesn't matter. We both know the truth. We're done, Barbara,
this charade is over. I just wanted to see your
face when you finally realized you can't push me around anymore,
that the gravy train has made its last stop. Her eyes,
like a cornered animal's, flickered to Curtis, who was sniffing
a rogue grasp by the patio. Give me my dog,

(30:07):
She snapped a sudden, desperate lunge for some semblance of control.
He's mine. My eyebrows shot up. Oh now he's yours. Funny,
I don't recall you ever feeding him, never walking him.
Unless it was for a goddamn Instagram post. You only
wanted him when it suited your image. Sorry, sweetheart, but
this dog, he's not going anywhere near you again. She

(30:30):
advanced a step, her face contorting a raw, primal anger
in her eyes. I'd never witnessed, not even in our
worst arguments. It was almost impressive, you son of a witch,
you piece of freaking trash. You waltz back in here,
into my house, half mine, I corrected, a small, vicious

(30:50):
smile playing on my lips. I was enjoying this, the
stripping away of her composure. And you have the unmitigated
gall to stand there acting like this is all my fault,
like you're some kind of innocent sufferer. I took a
slow breath, the familiar ache in my leg a dull
counterpoint to the adrenaline coursing through me. Whose fault it is,

(31:10):
Barbara is irrelevant. At this point. We're getting divorced. You
stole my money, you shattered my trust, you left me
to rot. Now you think you're entitled to something more. No,
I just came here to see if you had the
guts to say any of your nonsense to my actual
face instead of through lawyers or over anonymous texts, and
then she snapped on a dime. Her carefully constructed facade shattered.

(31:33):
You want something real, Everett, she shrieked, her voice cracking.
I'll give you a freaking reel. She launched herself at me,
a blur of fury. Her hands clawed form my shirt,
nails sharp and manicured, raking at my chest. The gaudy
diamond ring I'd stupidly bought her glinted in the afternoon sun.
She kicked out, aiming for my injured leg. Instinct, raw
and primal took over. I stumbled back, trying to maintain

(31:56):
my balance on the uneven patiostones, the cane clattering away,
plunged again, grabbing for my arm. I sidestepped a clumsy
but effective pivot and used her own momentum against her.
My hands came up not to strike, but to push,
to create space to get her the hell off me.
A firm, desperate shove. She flailed, arms, pin wheeling, a strangled,

(32:17):
high pitched shriek tearing from her throat. As her balance
deserted her. Her body pitched backward, a slow motion tableau
of surprise and rage, and then she was gone, disappearing
with a tremendous, ignominious splash into the goddamn swimming pool.
The sound was deafening in the sudden quiet. I hobbled
to the edge, heart pounding, watching her sputter and thrash

(32:37):
in the shallow end. Her expensive Nashville outfit was ruined,
hair plastered to her face, mascara streaming in black rivulets
down her cheeks. She coughed, glaring up at me with
an expression of pure, undeluded hatred. You you a hole,
she screamed, waving towards the steps, water cascading off her.
I just stood there, panting, the adrenaline making my hand

(33:00):
Ann's tremble. Don't you ever, I said, my voice low
and shaking with a terrifying cocktail of emotions. Put your
hands on me again, Barbara, I freaking mean it. Curtis,
as if on cue, let out a sharp bark, a
canine exclamation point to my threat. For a fleeting second,
I saw something flicker in her eyes, fear, genuine fear.

(33:22):
Then it was gone, replaced by a white hot, incandescent fury.
You are going to pay for this, Everett, she spat,
pushing clumps of wet hair from her eyes. I will
ruin you. I will take everything you have left. You'll see,
I snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. Good luck with that, sweetheart.
You've already done your worst, and guess what, I'm still

(33:43):
freaking standing. I turned, retrieved my cane, and limped away,
leaving her there a sodden, shrieking fury in her own backyard.
Let the neighbors watch, let them whisper. This was the
real Barbara, stripped bare of her pretenses, and for the
first time, amidst the betray and the anger, I felt
something else, a dark, exhilarating thrill. I'd stood up to her,

(34:05):
I'd fought back. Does that make me the villain? Maybe?
But every story has one, and sometimes the villain is
just the one who's finally had enough. I didn't hear
a peep from her for the rest of the day.
I imagined her nursing her wounded pride, probably on the
phone with Silvio, weaving a tale of my unprovoked brutality letter.
I went back to my sterile hotel room, collapsed onto

(34:28):
the bed, and slept the sleep of the utterly, profoundly
exhausted My phone remained silent until around six that evening,
it buzzed on the nightstand, call her id gauge. I
let it ring, half tempted to just ignore it. He
left a voicemail, Uh, Everett, dude, we got to talk,
like seriously, it's important. His voice was a typically teenage whine,

(34:51):
but with an undercurrent of something that sounded suspiciously like panic.
I sighed against my better judgment. I called him back.
He asked if he could come over. Said it was
about college, about how all the money was suddenly gone,
how Barbara was ranting that I needed to pay, that
it was my job as her soon to be ex husband.

(35:11):
I told him fine, if he wanted a conversation, he
could have it face to face. He agreed to come
by the next morning. I steeled myself. I figured a calm,
rational discussion about financial aids, student loans, the harsh realities
of life. My capacity for empathy, however, was running on fumes.
He arrived around noon the next day, not knocking, just
barging into my apartment, because of course he did, scowl

(35:34):
etched on his face, arms crossed in that belligerent teenage stance.
He didn't even glance at Curtis, who had approached him
with a hopeful tail wag. He marched right up to me.
Mom says you locked her out of all the accounts,
he announced, no greeting, no preamble, just accusation. She says,
you're not going to pay for my college, and I
need that money. It's my future. I leaned heavily on

(35:56):
my cane, the effort of standing, of just existing in
this same room as this entitled brat suddenly immense. Hello
to you too, Gauge, always a pleasure, he huffed, impatient. Whatever,
I'm serious, I'm applying to schools. And she said, you
cleaned out everything. Dad, He stopped, the word catching in
his throat, alien and unused Everett, whatever you got to pay.

(36:20):
That's the deal, right, You married my mom. You're supposed
to take care of us.

Speaker 2 (36:25):
That's what stepdads do.

Speaker 1 (36:27):
A bitter, incredulous laugh clawed its way out of me
and my gauge. Is that the deal? Because last I checked,
you and your mother made it abundantly clear that my
services were no longer required. You specifically informed me that
you didn't miss me, that you wanted me gone. Hate
to break it to your kid. But actions have consequences,

(36:49):
and one of those consequences is that I am no
longer your personal damn atm Gage's face flushed a dull,
angry red. That was mom's idea, okay, she said, if
I told you that you'd back off, stop dragging things out,
She said you were too soft, that you'd fold. I
raised an eyebrow, a slow, deliberate movement. Well, Gage, it

(37:10):
appears I'm not so soft anymore, am I. You want
college money, apply for scholarships, get a part time job.
Ask your mother where all our money really went. Maybe
her new pal Silvio can chip in from his lucrative
career of well, whatever the hell it is he does
besides comforting lonely housewives. His eyes narrowed, fury radiating off

(37:31):
him in palpable waves. Don't you damn talk about Silvio
like that. He's a good guy, better than you anyway. Oh,
for Christ's sake, Gauge, grow up. I snapped. My patient's
completely gone. I know exactly what he is, and frankly,
so should you. He's the reason your mother conveniently forgot
she had a husband lying in a hospital bed. He
was keeping her busy it's not my freaking problem. Gage shouted,

(37:55):
his fists clenched, his face contorted, I just want my
goddamn college money. If you don't pay, I swear to God,
I'll make your life a living hell. You hear me,
you'll regret this big time. The threat, raw and impotent,
hung in the stale air of the cheap hotel room.
I felt something inside me, something cold and hard, solidify.

(38:19):
I might be the villain in their twisted narrative, but
I'd be damned if i'd cower before this spoiled over
indulged brat. You better get the hell out of my apartment,
I said, my voice a low, dangerous growl before I
do something we'll both regret. I am sick to freaking
end of you and your mother thinking you're entitled to
bleed me dry. You want me to pay for your

(38:41):
college after everything? Not a chance in hell. Now get out,
go cry to mommy. He kicked out his heel, slamming
into the side of my cheap particle board coffee table.
The jolts sent a sharp stab of pain up my
already aching leg. Screw you, he screamed, his voice cracking.
You can't do this to me, you can't. I'd had enough.

(39:02):
I grabbed his arm, my grip surprisingly strong, fueled by
pure adrenaline and rage, I spun him around, yanked open
the door, and shoved him hard out into the hallway. Yes, gage,
I said, my voice trembling with barely suppressed violence. I
absolutely damn can now go home. I slammed the door
in his face, the sound echoing the finality of it all.

(39:25):
My heart hammered against my ribs. I leaned against the door,
taking ragged, shallow breaths through the thin wood. I could
hear him cursing, screaming, a litany of pathetic, childish threats.
Then the sound of retreating, stomping footsteps. It wasn't over,
of course, it wasn't over. Minutes later, a series of
sickening thuds from outside, then a crash, the unmistakable sound

(39:49):
of shattering glass. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, jolted through me.
I wrenched the door open, gauge. He was in the
parking lot, a goddamn brick in his hand, swinging it
wildly at my car are The driver's side window was
already a spider web of cracks, the side mirror hanging
by a wire, You worthless, cheap, old fool, He shrieked,
his face a mask of contorted, tear streaked rage. You

(40:12):
pay for my college, or I'll make you pay another way.
I'll destroy everything you own. The sheer, unmitigated entitlement of
it stole my breath, You little piece of crap, I roared,
lunging out of the doorway, my cane forgotten, hobbling as
fast as my wrecked leg would allow.

Speaker 2 (40:28):
Drop the freakin' brick.

Speaker 1 (40:30):
He brought it down again with vicious force on the
hood of my car, leaving a deep, ugly dent. Then
he dragged it across the driver's side door, scoring a
long silver scar in the paintwork. This is what you get,
he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. Neighbors were starting
to appear on their balconies, phones already out recording. Curtis

(40:51):
was barking frantically from inside my apartment. I fumbled for
my own phone, fingers slick with sweat, and dialed nine
to one one. I'm done playing your game's gauge, I said,
my voice, surprisingly steady, staring him directly in the eye.

Speaker 2 (41:05):
You're going to jail, you little psycho.

Speaker 1 (41:07):
He continued to swear a torrent of filth, took one
last defiant swing at the already ruined windshield, then turned
to bolt, but the wail of sirens blessedly quick cut
through the afternoon air. A cruiser, lights flashing, screeched to
a halt. At the entrance to the parking lot, two
officers were out in a heartbeat, weapons drawn, voices sharp

(41:29):
and commanding. Police hands in the air. Get on the
ground now. Gauge froze, the brick, clattering to the asphalt.
Tears of rage and frustrated impotence streamed down his face.
He won't pay for my future, he shrieked, a full
blown hysterical meltdown. He's trying to ruin my life. The
officers were on him in seconds, forcing him to the ground,
cuffing him with brutal efficiency. One of them, a stern

(41:52):
faced woman, gave me a curt nod. You want to
press charges, sir. I swallowed the lump in my throat,
thick and painful. He trespassed, I said, my voice hoarse, shaking.
He vandalized my property. He threatened me, Yes, yes, I
want to press charges. They hauled Gage to his feet, panting, disheveled.
He glared at me, eyes blazing with a hatred that

(42:15):
was almost pure. You're gonna regret this, you old freak,
he spat. You'll see Mom will fix this. She'll get
me out, and I'll be back. I'll make you pay.
I said nothing. My first impulse was to unleash a
fresh torrent of invective, but a profound, soul deep exhaustion.
It settled over me. I just watched as they bundled
him into the back of the cruiser, the door slamming

(42:37):
shut with a metallic finality. Neighbors gaped from their porches,
their faces a mixture of shock, disapproval, and morbid curiosity.
I turned away, unable to meet their eyes. It didn't matter.
I was done, done being their punching bag, done being
the collateral damage in their dysfunctional lives. The aftermath was
a predictable crap show, formal complaints, police statements, insurance claims,

(43:01):
a barrage of hysterical texts and voicemails from Barbara accusing
me of ruining Gage's life, of being a vindictive monster,
ruining his life by what holding him accountable for his actions.
Bernice ever practical, advised me to seek some measure of peace,
warned that the conflict was consuming me. Peace easy for

(43:23):
her to say, Peace felt like a distant, unattainable shore.
I was drowning in a toxic brew of anger, betrayal,
and a grim, unsettling satisfaction that I was finally unequivocally
hitting back and hitting hard. I'd like to say that
was the end of it, the grand dramatic climax, But
untangling eight years of a toxic marriage isn't a clean break.

(43:44):
It's a messy, protracted amputation. A few days later, a
new number on my caller ID Silvio, probably calling to posture,
to gloat, to issue more empty threats. I let it
go to voicemail. Heard you had a little run in
with your boy Everett, and saw that video of you
baptizing Barbara in the pool. Real classy, real tough guy,

(44:05):
aren't you. Why don't you come talk to me, man
to man. You want to put your hands on someone,
try putting them on me. I'm waiting. I deleted the message,
a weary sigh, escaping me. If he wanted a confrontation,
he could find me. I wasn't seeking him out, I
wasn't playing his childish games. The court set a date
for the divorce proceedings. Barbara naturally contested everything, the property division,

(44:28):
the assets, even hilariously custody of Curtis, claiming he was
her emotional support animal. Reggie, my legal gladiator, calmly, methodically
dismantled her arguments, presenting a mountain of evidence my pre
marital assets, her documented withdrawals, the Cancoon tickets, the jewelry

(44:48):
receipts for Silvio, the witness statements from the movers. She
didn't have a leg to stand on. She backed down
on the dog, but dug in her heels about the house,
playing the sufferer, the wronged woman about to be cast
out onto the street. The sale, however, was inevitable joint mortgage,

(45:08):
joint debt. The final hearing was a month away. I
braced myself for a final, ugly courtroom battle. During those weeks,
Gage's case lumbered through the juvenile court system. He was fined,
ordered to pay restitution for the damage to my car,
a little over one thousand bucks for the glass and paint,
and mandated to attend anger management classes. He seethed. Barbara

(45:31):
tried to intervene to charm the prosecutor, to claim I'd provoked.
Gauge that I'd attacked him first, but my neighbor's doorbell
camera footage was irrefutable. Gauge the aggressor, gauge the vandal,
gauge Screaming threats. He started a campaign of maltreatment, texting
me from burner apps, a stream of juvenile insults and curses.

(45:53):
I blocked each new number, a tedious but necessary ritual.
My physical therapist, a no nonsense woman who'd seen her
shriff try, warned that the emotional stress was impeding my recovery.
So I channeled the rage into my exercises, into my rehab.
Strangely it worked. Each painful extension, each grueling repetition, became
a blow against them. By the time the final court

(46:15):
date loomed, I was off the cane, relying only on
a supportive brace from my leg Stronger, harder. The day
of the divorce hearing, I walked into the courtroom in
a new suit, Reggie at my side, a quiet, confident presence.
Barbara sat at the opposing table, flanked by her own
frazzled looking lawyer. She was tapping her foot her eyes
darting around the room a caged animal looking for an

(46:36):
escape route. Gage was thankfully nowhere in sight. Silvio, too
was conspicuously absent. Perhaps the well had run dry, Perhaps
he'd realized Barbara was more liability than asset. The judge,
a stern, no nonsense woman, cut through the nonsense with
a surgical precision. She reviewed the financials, the asset divisions,

(46:58):
the evidence of Barbara's inn discretions. She asked Barbara if
she had any final compelling arguments. Barbara fumbled, looked desperately
at her lawyer, who gave a minute, almost imperceptible shake
of his head. It was over in less than an hour.
Marriage dissolved.

Speaker 2 (47:13):
How's to be sold?

Speaker 1 (47:14):
Proceeds split down the middle, after my documented pre marital
assets and her documented financial misuses were accounted, for each
of us to depart with what was legally unequivocally ours.
In the hallway afterwards, Barbara, her face pale, her eyes
red rimmed, tried one last desperate gambit. Everett, I just
she hesitated, a tremor in her voice, actual tears welling.

(47:37):
I don't understand how everything, how it all fell apart
so fast? How it got so ugly. I looked at her,
really looked at her, for perhaps the first time in years,
and I felt nothing, a vast, echoing emptiness where love,
or what I'd mistaken for love, used to be. It

(47:58):
fell apart, Barbara, I said, my voice cold, devoid of inflection,
the moment you decided I wasn't worth the gas money,
the moment you told me to die quickly. Actually no,
it fell apart long before that. You just finally stopped pretending.
This ugliness. You orchestrated it. You just never expected me
to fight back. A tear escaped, tracing a path through

(48:22):
her carefully applied makeup. I was angry, she whispered, and scared.
And Sylvia, he was just there. But he's gone now.
They all leave. Eventually, her voice was small, lost For
a nanosecond, a flicker of something akin to pity stirred
within me. I crushed it that, Barbara, I said, turning

(48:44):
to walk away. My bracelegs stiff, but steady is your problem,
not mine. I didn't look back. Weeks later, the house
sold quickly hot market. After the lawyers took their pound
of flesh. The remaining proceeds were split. Reggie ensured the
check cleared and my new solitary account. I paid off
the lingering medical bills, put a down payment on a small,

(49:05):
unremarkable condo in a different part of town, and bank
the rest a fresh start, or at least a different one.
Gauge I heard through Bernice was living with Barbara in
a cramped two bedroom apartment, grudgingly attending his anger management
sessions and working a crappy part time job at a
fast food joint to pay off his restitution to me.
He never apologized. I never expected him to. As for me,

(49:30):
I kept up with the physical therapy. Tessa, the kind nurse,
the one who'd shown me a sliver of human decency
when I was at my lowest, became a friend. Coffee
turned into occasional dinners. She listened without judgment, her gentle
presence a quiet counterpoint to the lingering bitterness that still
sometimes threatened to consume me. I wasn't ready for anything more,

(49:53):
anything complicated, but her friendship was a lifeline. Months past,
the legal dust settled, my legs scarred and permanently stiff,
healed as much as it ever would. I could walk
Curtis for miles without the constant grinding pain. The suffocating
tightness in my chest began to ease, replaced by a
kind of weary resignation. Barber's calls dwindled, then stopped altogether,

(50:17):
save for the occasional maudlin wine fueled voicemail about how
Gage really needed a father figure, or how maybe we
made a mistake. I erased them, unlistened. So here I
am single, a slight, permanent limp, a modest condo that
smells a dog kibble in new beginnings. Do I have
illusions about my own actions? About the cold, calculated cruelty

(50:38):
i'd unleashed. No, I was ruthless, I was vengeful. I
took not just what was mine, but I took it
in a way designed to inflict maximum damage, maximum humiliation.
After the abandonment, the betrayal, the casual disregard for my
very existence, I don't lose a moment's sleep over it.
Gauge faced his consequences, fine, community service, restitution. Hisge was

(51:00):
impotent against the cold, impartial machinery of the law. Barbara
begged me to drop the charges, offered to pay me back,
to make it right. I refused. Some lessons can only
be learned the hard way. Respect I've discovered isn't given.
It's taken, usually from those who've tried to strip you
of it. Silvio, he slithered away a footnote in the

(51:21):
saga of my imploded marriage, probably already sniffing around his
next mark. My last interaction with him was that slap
in the grocery store, a fitting farewell. Barbara tells her version,
I'm sure paints me as the monster, the misuser, the
one who shattered her adylic life letter. I embraced the
role she cast for me. I became the villain of

(51:43):
her story, and in a strange, twisted way, it set
me free. If that's villainy, then I wear the label
with a certain grim satisfaction. The empty house, the stolen dog,
the hospital betrayal, the push into the pool, the brick
through the windshield, the acrimonious divorce. It's one hell of
a chapter, but it's closed. Bernie and I are closer

(52:04):
than ever. Tessa is a genuine friend, a reminder that
not all human connection is transactional. Curtis is living his
best life, snoring at my feet as I write this,
and me I'm back at work, supervising taking it slow, rebuilding.
If you asked me if I regret any of it,
the scorched earth tactics, the cold fury, the refusal to forgive,
the answer is complicated. The man I was the one

(52:27):
who lay in that hospital bed, ignored and betrayed. He
regrets nothing. He did what he had to do to survive,
to reclaim some part of himself. People show you who
they are in a crisis. Barbara showed me her true colors,
and I, in turn showed her mind. In the end,
maybe everyone got what they deserved. Barbara is a drift

(52:49):
in the emptiness she created. Gage learned a harsh lesson
about consequences. Silvio learned that not all marks are easy,
and I I found a strength I never knew. I
possessed fpacity for ruthlessness I never suspected, and in that
discovery a strange, unsettling kind of peace. It's done. The
battles are over, the apologies never came. I'm okay with that.

(53:13):
I'm not waiting for their remorse to heal me. I'm
healing myself. One day, one step, one quiet evening, with
my dog at my feet at a time, and for
the first time in a long long time. I can breathe,
and that I've learned is worth everything.