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I always believed I’d be the one to walk away first.
But love — or what I thought was love — has a funny way of making you ignore the obvious. The late-night texts. The mysterious perfume. The sudden “work trips” that had no destination.
Then one afternoon, he sat across from me, eyes cold, hands fidgeting with his phone.
“I’ve met someone,” he said. Just like that. No emotion, no hesitation.
“Her name’s Alina. I think I’m in love with her.”
He actually looked relieved. Like confessing to infidelity gave him peace.
I blinked. “Okay,” I said.
He tilted his head. “Okay?”
“No screaming?” he asked. “No tears? No throwing things?”
I smiled. “Not today.”
He packed up and left the next morning. Took his half of the closet, his records, and the ugly lamp I always hated.
What he didn’t take, though, was the house. It was mine before we met — paid in full, in my name only.
He also didn’t take the car. Because that? Also mine.
And the savings account? Let’s just say, it’s hard to cheat on someone who owns both your passwords and your accountant’s number.
But I wasn’t interested in revenge. I wanted something better: closure with flair.
So I sent a bouquet of black tulips to his new apartment — the one he moved into with Alina — with a simple card:
“Good luck explaining the joint tax fraud. I sent everything to the auditor this morning.With love,
Your ex-wife.”
That was two weeks ago. Haven’t heard from him since.
But today? I opened my mail and found a letter from Alina.
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. You deserved better.”
I smiled. Folded it neatly. Tossed it in the fireplace. Because I did deserve better.
And now? I am better.
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