I never imagined my marriage would crash and burn so spectacularly, but Logan, my husband of five years, made sure it did. We started out happy, dreaming of a family, but when we couldn’t have kids, everything shifted. I spiraled, blaming myself, while he pulled away, chasing gym sessions and a shiny new car. I fought to keep us together, but last night, my friend Lola dragged me to a jazz club to shake off the gloom. The music was soft, the vibe just right—until Lola’s face froze. “Is that Logan?” she whispered. I turned, and there he was, cozying up to a woman in the corner, her arms around him, both of them laughing like I didn’t exist. My heart sank, but my feet moved. Before I knew it, I was at their table, yelling, “Are you kidding me?” He barely flinched—just smirked and said, “Good, now you know. I love her. We’re done.” I was speechless, crushed, as Lola pulled me out of there.
I crashed at Lola’s, crying all night, but by morning, I decided to face him. Pulling into our driveway, I stopped cold—my stuff was strewn across the lawn like garbage: clothes, books, memories. Logan stood on the porch with her—Brenda—grinning like they’d hit the jackpot. “This house is my grandfather’s,” he sneered. “You’re out. Take your junk and go.” I couldn’t feel my hands as I started packing my car, their smugness burning me up. Brenda even chirped, “Can’t wait to redo this old-lady dump,” watching me like it was a show. I stayed stone-faced, refusing to crack, when a car rolled up. Out stepped Mr. Duncan, Logan’s grandfather, looking puzzled, then furious. He’s a no-nonsense guy who built his wealth from scratch and always liked me, though I never knew why. “What’s this?” he roared as Logan stumbled out, babbling excuses.
Mr. Duncan wasn’t having it. “You kicked Natasha out for this tramp? This house is mine, and I gave it to you for a family—not this mess. You’re out, Logan. She stays. And you’re cut off—no more money.” Logan’s jaw dropped, Brenda’s smile vanished, and I just stood there, stunned. They slunk away, and Mr. Duncan turned to me, gentle now. “I came to offer IVF help, but I found this instead. The house is yours—I’ll fix the deed. I’m sorry my grandson’s a fool.” Tears came then, relief washing over me. Days later, the house was mine, and word spread Brenda ditched Logan when the cash dried up. He showed up a week later, ragged, begging me to call his grandpa. “I’ve got nothing,” he whined—no sorry, just self-pity. “You chose this,” I said, slamming the door on his tantrum. It felt so good, even if I might pity him someday. For now, I’m free—and he’s the one with nothing.
