Running into my ex-husband and the woman he cheated on me with was the last thing I wanted. But when it finally happened, they mocked my career, assuming I was struggling. They couldn’t have been more wrong—because now, I hold the power.
Liam and I were married for three years. People saw us as steady, reliable—maybe even a bit dull. But that sense of stability was exactly what I had craved after growing up in a chaotic home. It felt like safety.
We both had solid jobs—me in marketing at a restaurant chain, Liam working his way up in the tech world. But more than anything, we wanted to become parents. That was our shared dream.
The first year, we tried naturally. The second, with medical help. And in year three, I finally got pregnant.
I still remember the way his face lit up when I told him. We were in the kitchen, sunlight pouring across the counter, and I handed him a tiny onesie. He cried—and so did I.
But that joy didn’t last. At eleven weeks, I lost the baby. Everything inside me collapsed. I withdrew, trying to survive the grief. I took time off work. I joined a support group. I cried in store aisles just from seeing baby products.
Liam, on the other hand, became cold and distant. I assumed it was how he handled grief. I gave him space—probably too much.
One day, I left a support group meeting early. The session had wrapped up ahead of schedule, and I wasn’t ready to go back to our quiet, grief-filled house. Liam had always refused to attend with me, saying he needed to process things on his own. I respected that. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
I stopped by a café, ordered a decaf, sat for a while watching the world go by, and finally headed home.
The moment I walked in, something felt off. I saw a pair of leopard-print heels by the door—heels I recognized immediately. My stomach sank.
Then I heard laughter from the kitchen. Familiar laughter.
It was Daria. My childhood best friend.
I crept forward and peeked around the corner.
There they were—half-dressed. Liam, laughing, feeding her whipped cream from the can. The same smile he gave me when I told him about the baby was now aimed at her.
My heart shattered. I didn’t scream. I was too numb for that. I just said, “Out.”
They scrambled to explain, offering excuses and awkward stammering. Daria muttered something about “accidental feelings,” and Liam looked like a teenager caught shoplifting.
I didn’t listen. I threw them both out—no theatrics, just finality.