Mike and I had been married for eight years. No kids yet, but I thought we were happy. I worked full-time, split the bills, did everything a good wife does.
Then one evening, I came home a little late, and there she was — HER.
A very pregnant woman sitting on my couch. My heart skipped a beat, thinking she was a friend in need. But the look on Mike’s face told me everything.
“Hey, we need to talk,” he said casually. Then he dropped the bomb: “This is Jessica. She’s pregnant. With my child. We’ve decided to be together.”
I froze. Then he had the nerve to tell me TO MOVE TO MY MOM’S while they took the house. I was speechless. My bl:ood was boiling, but I kept my cool.
I looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Okay, I’ll go away.”
Mike probably thought he’d gotten off easy. Jessica’s smile grew wider. Little did they know, the lottery was about to hit them backhard.
I packed a suitcase with some essentials, and left without another word.
I drove to my mom’s house. The next day, I set my plan in motion.
I marched in the bank like a woman on a mission. I froze our joint account faster than you can say “cheating jerk.”
The look on the bank manager’s face when I explained why was priceless.
Next, I visited a locksmith.
I remembered overhearing Mike tell Jessica they’d be gone for three days, giving me plenty of time to execute my master plan.
My next stop: my house – the same cozy house Mike and I once lived together.
The puzzled locksmith probably thought I was crazy, cackling as I had him change all the locks on the house.
Then came the movers.
I gave them the spare keys and scheduled them to pack up everything I owned, which was basically everything in the house. I even took the toilet paper. Let’s see how Mike and Jessica enjoy using leaves!
But the piece de resistance? I had a brilliant idea that would make this revenge not just sweet, but long-lasting.
I sent out party invitations to Mike’s family, our friends, his coworkers, even nosy neighbor.
The invitation read: “Come celebrate Mike’s new life! Surprise party at our house, tomorrow at 7 p.m.!”
Then, I commissioned a billboard. It was delivered and set up on our front lawn.
In giant, bold letters, it proclaimed: “Congratulations on Dumping Me for Your Pregnant Mistress, Mike! Hope the Baby Doesn’t Inherit Your Infidelity!”
I stepped back to admire my handiwork. With a satisfied smirk, I sashayed away from the scene, eagerly anticipating the chaos that was about to unfold.
The next evening, my phone rang. It was Mike.
“Michelle, What the hell is going on? Why are there people at our house? And what’s with this insane billboard?”, he screeched.
I said, trying to sound innocent. “Just a little housewarming party for you and Jessica. Don’t you like the decorations?”
“Decorations? It’s a freaking circus out here! And why can’t I get into the house?”
I couldn’t help but giggle. “Well, honey, you told me to move out, remember? You never said anything about you staying there. I just remembered that the house is solely under my name. So, I changed the locks. Oopsie!”
There was a long silence on the other end. I could almost hear the gears in his tiny brain trying to process what was happening.
“Where are we supposed to go?” he finally sputtered.
“Gee, I don’t know, Mike. Maybe Jessica’s mom would love to have you? I hear pregnancy hormones and in-laws mix really well.”
In the days that followed, I had the utilities cut off, canceled the cable, and made sure all our joint assets were transferred into my name. I listed the house for sale, making sure to mention in the listing that it came with a “bonus front lawn art installation.”
I had Mike served with divorce papers at work. I specifically requested the mailman to dress up as a pregnant woman. Just for funsies.
But the universe wasn’t done with Mike yet. Oh no, it had saved the best for last.
A week later, I got a call from Jessica. She was crying so hard.
“Michelle,” she sobbed, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know… I mean, Mike told me you two were separated. And now… now he’s broke and homeless, and I’m pregnant, and I don’t know what to do!”
I almost felt bad for her.
“Well, Jessica,” I said, trying to keep the glee out of my voice, “I hear the circus is always looking for new acts. Maybe you two could start a juggling duo? You juggle the baby, he juggles his lies?”
She didn’t appreciate my humor. Tsk! Tsk!
As it turns out, when Jessica found out that Mike was now homeless, broke, she decided that maybe being with a guy who had no money, no house, and no future wasn’t such a great idea after all.
She dumped him.
Last I heard, Mike was living in a tiny apartment, trying to scrape together enough money to pay bills and feed his hungry belly. His family had cut him off, disgusted by his behavior.
They even sent me a fruit basket and a sorry card.
As for me? The house sold for a nice profit. I moved to a beautiful new place, started my own business, and adopted a cat. I named him Karma.
New 1470
The husband who frequently disparaged his wife’s culinary skills was profoundly shaken by a covert message tucked into his sandwich
Throughout our relationship, my husband habitually treated me with disrespect, but a recent incident pushed me to my limit. Fueled by frustration, I crafted a memorable lesson that ultimately led to the dissolution of our marriage.
On what appeared to be an ordinary weekend filled with routine chores and work commitments, my husband’s playful yet often harsh humor escalated inappropriateness. Over our two-year marriage, his constant belittlement had become a painful norm. He criticized everything from my housekeeping to my appearance, frequently berating my culinary efforts.
His comments on my cooking were particularly cutting. “You really can’t do anything right, can you? You can’t even cook properly,” he would half-joke, his words laced with seriousness. Recently, these comments had become intolerably hurtful.
Last weekend, while preparing dinner in hopes of easing his criticisms, I decided to make pasta. It was not just any pasta, but a rich, meaty sauce with vegetables that required hours of simmering. My husband, preoccupied with a work deadline, paid little attention as I meticulously cooked.
When dinner was ready, I called him to the table, hoping for a brief respite from our ongoing disputes over my cooking. However, his response was immediate and scornful. “What kind of garbage did you cook up tonight?” he sneered, not even bothering to look at the meal before insulting it.
His words were the final straw. Overwhelmed by the constant degradation and the stress of my nursing job, I snapped. The pot of sauce, a symbol of my efforts, crashed to the floor, splattering the rug with my frustration. I declared sharply, “Well, now there’s nothing for dinner, and I better not hear that word from you again!”
Rather than empathizing with my distress, he fixated on the ruined rug. “Jenna, that’s an expensive rug! It was just a joke!” he exclaimed, attempting to downplay the situation. His trivializing of my feelings only deepened my resolve.
Perhaps it was the accumulation of insults or just the strain of a rough day, but I left without a word, seeking solace with takeout food and a friend’s company. My friend found humor in the situation, but Jimmy, my husband, was irate, bombarding me with messages trying to explain that his derogatory comment was part of a viral TikTok trend.
His excuses did little to mend the emotional damage his words had caused. The disrespect, masked as humor, was more than I could bear. Despite his continued pleas, I had reached my breaking point.
Resolved to enact my revenge, I devised a plan. That night, after returning home to find Jimmy asleep, I accessed his phone, gathering his pin codes and passwords.
The next morning, I greeted him with feigned kindness, which he met with sarcasm. Despite his coldness, I prepared him a special breakfast, which, to my surprise, he enjoyed. As he prepared for work, I packed him a sandwich with a hidden note inside: “Real garbage, see you never.”
With my belongings packed, I awaited the unfolding of my plan. Shortly after he discovered the note at work, Jimmy’s desperate messages began, but I was unmoved. The note’s other side bore a grim warning about his career, hinting at a devastating revelation.
My final act of revenge involved sending an email from his account to his company, exposing his fraudulent activities. His subsequent apologies were met with silence from me.
The journey through this ordeal was arduous but necessary. I divorced Jimmy, freeing myself from the cycle of disrespect. My parting gift was more than a mere note; it was a reflection of the consequences of his actions.
As I embarked on a new chapter, free from the shadow of devaluation, I recognized the true measure of self-worth. The dignity I preserved by leaving a situation that failed to honor my value marked the beginning of a promising future, one rich with respect, love, and self-appreciation.
This story serves as a prelude to another complex tale from the “AITA” subreddit, involving a woman, her husband, and his insensitive friend, Austin. Their story dives into the nuances of relationship dynamics, empathy, and the emotional toll of infertility, highlighting the importance of support and understanding within a partnership.
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