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“I love you too, sweetheart.” For the first time in weeks, I could breathe.
A week after we got home, I confronted Derek with a calmness I didn’t know I possessed.
Just cold, hard truth.
“You gave your mother luxury while I struggled with our children in economy,” I said, standing in our living room. “Then your mother left me with a seven-thousand-dollar bill. I’m done, Derek.”
He stammered, his face going pale.
“Lauren, I’m already upset about something. My boss…someone called him and… can’t we just…”
“Your sob story doesn’t give you the right to treat your spouse and children like garbage. Pack a bag.
You’re moving out.”
His mouth opened and closed, but I didn’t wait for a response. I’d already made my decision.
You can have supervised visitation if you want it.”
“You can’t be serious.”
He left that night, and I didn’t shed a single tear. The hardest part was still ahead.
Cynthia showed up a week later, expecting her money.
“You filed for divorce?” she hissed.
I nodded. “Someone had to make adult decisions.”
I invited her in with a smile that would’ve made her proud.
“But I do have something else.”
I pressed play on my laptop. The recording I’d made of her most recent visit (every sneering word, every cruel demand) filled the room. Her face went from smug to horrified in seconds.
“I sent this to your bridge club.
And your church group. And every family member on our contact list.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I already did. By now, everyone knows exactly how you treat your family.
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