After 47 years of marriage, my husband declared he wanted a divorce and a life of freedom. When I, stunned, asked if he was serious, he simply smirked and said, “Come on, Nicky! You can’t say you didn’t see this coming. We both know there’s nothing left between us.
I don’t want to waste my remaining years sulking around. I want to live, be free, and maybe even find someone. If that wasn’t enough, he smugly informed me he’d booked a trip to Mexico, entirely funded by our joint account.
The divorce? No surprise—I’d known for a while he was sneaking around with a younger woman, but I clung to familiarity, even if it meant pretending not to notice him slipping away.
But this final act—leaving with our savings and hurling insults—sparked a fury in me I hadn’t known I possessed. So, I crafted a revenge plan that soon had John knocking on my door, pleading to come back.
