Three years ago, I married Dan, a guy who swore he was the hardest worker alive. He’d vanish into his home office daily, claiming he was shaping our future, and I bought it—hook, line, and sinker. I juggled our two kids, the house, and a part-time gig, all to keep his “focus” intact. Lately, though, cracks showed—bills piled up, my patience thinned, and I started doubting his grand promises. Still, he’d lock himself away, muttering about “big deals” and “numbers,” so I hushed the kids and timed my chores to not bug him.
Yesterday flipped that script. It was a messy Wednesday—school was out, and the kids were wild. Little Ben zoomed around with our pup yapping behind, while Sophie flipped cartwheels in the den. I scrubbed the kitchen, dodging their chaos, whispering, “Quiet—Daddy’s working!” Ben whined, “But Rover’s bored!” I sighed, too worn to argue. Dan had barked at breakfast, “Huge meeting today—no noise!” I’d nodded, biting back the sting of being sidelined again. As I tackled the sink, I wondered when we’d last really connected—beyond bills or kid stuff.
Then it all crashed—literally. Ben’s chase sent a pot flying from my hands, banging loud enough to jolt Sophie into a yelp and Ben into giggles. Before I could hush them, Dan stormed out, face blazing, “Can’t you keep it quiet for one second? This is humiliating in a meeting!” I gripped the counter, stammering, “Dan, I—” He cut me off, “I’m killing myself in there, and you can’t handle this?” The kids froze, Ben clutching Rover, scared stiff. I started to apologize, but a flirty laugh—a woman’s—slipped from his office. My stomach dropped. “Who’s that?” I asked, sharp.
His anger flipped to nerves. “Just a client—drop it,” he said, guarding the door. No chance—I shoved past. His screen glowed with a goofy game, and a video chat showed “LILYSWEET99,” a perky avatar giggling away. “What’s this?” I demanded, voice steady despite my shock. Dan puffed up, “My downtime—you’re so dull! Lily gets me, unlike you.” It hit like a punch. “Downtime?” I fired back. “I’m drowning out here for your ‘work,’ and you’re flirting online?” He sneered, “She listens—you don’t.” I sent the kids upstairs, reeling.
“You’re unbelievable,” I spat, tears hot. “I’ve given up everything, and you’re playing games?” He shrugged, “You’re always tired—I need fun.” Furious, he added, “I’m out—Lily’s better!” He grabbed a bag, stuffed it with shirts, and bolted. Next day, I swayed between rage and weird calm—kids kept asking, “Where’s Daddy?” I’d mumble, “Not sure, honey.” Then his mom called, voice shaky, “Dan drove to meet Lily—she’s a bearded guy who scammed him for cash. He’s crushed—wants to come back.”
I laughed, loud and free, letting years of weight spill out. “He wasn’t working—just gaming for pennies, sending some to ‘Lily,’” she said. “No,” I replied, firm. “I’m done being his doormat.” When he begged later, I said, “Divorce—keep your laptop, find a new ‘Lily.’” He had nothing to fight with—I got the house, kids, all of it. Now, I’ve got a full-time job, daycare’s set, and I’m lighter than ever. Ben asked one night, “Are we okay, Mommy?” I grinned, “Better than okay, buddy.” And I meant it—he tanked himself, not us.
