My husband broke up with me via text: «I’m done with you…

Apparently, living on a receptionist’s salary isn’t quite the glamorous escape he imagined. Mark’s family started reaching out, their tone markedly different from their initial accusations. We had no idea, his sister Amanda admitted.

He told us you’d been cold, controlling, that he needed to escape. But then we saw his texts, the way he bragged about taking your money. That’s not the brother I thought I knew.

His mother called again, this time in tears. The things he said about your age, about replacing you with someone younger. I raised him better than that.

I thought I did anyway. I let their calls go to voicemail. Their support might have meant something weeks ago, but now it felt like rats deserting a sinking ship.

The boutique thrived, ironically boosted by local gossip about my situation. Women started coming in specifically to show support, often leaving with far more than they’d planned to buy. My ex tried something similar, one customer confided while buying a designer handbag.

Thought he’d take everything in the divorce. Men like that never expect us to be smarter than them. My phone still buzzed occasionally with texts from Mark, his tone swinging between anger and manipulation.

You’ve ruined everything. I never meant to hurt you. You’ll regret being so vindictive.

Can’t we work something out? That business would be nothing without my support. I forwarded each message to my lawyer without responding. Let him dig his hole deeper.

Through the grapevine, I heard Melissa was having second thoughts. Apparently, sharing her studio apartment with a middle-aged man who couldn’t afford his own place wasn’t the romantic adventure she’d imagined. The age gap that had seemed exciting during secret hotel meetings felt different in the harsh light of reality.

She posted about toxic relationships and learning from mistakes yesterday, my lawyer mentioned during an update call, and removed her relationship status this morning. I almost felt sorry for Mark. Almost.

But then I remembered his, haha, after telling me he’d emptied our account. The casual cruelty of his comments about my age, the way he’d assumed I’d be helpless without him. Instead of pity, I felt something else.

Pride. Pride in my foresight. In my quiet strength.

In my ability to protect myself while he underestimated me. The final divorce hearing painted a very different picture from Mark’s imagined triumph. Gone was his cocky attitude, replaced by barely concealed panic.

Melissa was noticeably absent. She’d moved on to a co-worker her own age, according to office gossip. Mark had shown up in his old clothes, the designer wardrobe apparently returned to help repay the joint account he’d emptied.

His lawyer looked tired, probably from trying to find loopholes in my documented separation of assets. Your Honor, Mark’s lawyer attempted one last time. Despite the separate property documentation, my client contributed to the growth of his wife’s business through moral support and- Moral support? My lawyer interrupted.

Like these text messages belittling Mrs. Harrison’s business as a little shop? Or these social media posts calling it her hobby? The judge had clearly seen enough. The final settlement reflected my careful planning. I kept my house, my business, and my separate assets…