As I sit here reflecting on the events that led to my divorce, I can’t help but feel a sense of relief mixed with a tinge of sadness. My marriage to Logan had been a constant struggle, with our fairy-tale phase ending much sooner than I had expected. The strain of infertility took a toll on our relationship, and instead of coming together, Logan pulled away, immersing himself in the gym, fast cars, and his own self-discovery.
I tried to hold it all together, convincing myself that it was just a phase, but the cracks in our marriage only grew wider. And then, one fateful night, my best friend Lola convinced me to take a break from it all. She could see how much I needed it, and so she dragged me to a cozy jazz club downtown.
For a brief moment, I felt like my old self again, lost in the soothing music. But that moment was shattered when Lola’s face froze mid-laugh, her eyes widening in shock as she looked over my shoulder.
“Natasha…is that Logan?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief.
My heart dropped as I turned to see my husband, the man I had devoted my life to, with another woman draped over his shoulder, giggling as he whispered in her ear.
My body moved on its own as I stormed towards their table, my anger and hurt boiling over. “Logan, are you serious right now?!” I barked at him.
He looked up at me, his face briefly surprised before breaking into a smug grin. “Natasha, finally,” he said, as if I was the one inconveniencing him.
The woman beside him, Brenda, looked me over with a smirk, as though she had won some kind of prize. And then Logan dropped the bombshell on me, as if it was no big deal.
“Look, it’s better you know now. I’m in love with someone else. We’re done,” he said casually.
His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to scream, cry, throw the table over, but I just stood there, numb.
Lola pulled me out of the club, cursing under her breath about how Logan would regret this. I spent the night at her apartment, breaking down in her spare room.
The next morning, I returned home, hoping that Logan would have come to his senses. But as I pulled into the driveway, I was greeted by a scene that felt like a slap in the face.
All my belongings were strewn across the front lawn, as if they were nothing but trash. Clothes, photo albums, even sentimental items, tossed carelessly.
On the porch stood Logan and Brenda, smirking at me like villains in a bad soap opera. And then Logan said the words that shattered my world even further.
“This house belongs to my grandfather. You have no claim to it. You’re out. Get your things and leave,” he said coldly.
I held back my tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. Silently, I began loading my car, enduring Brenda’s taunts about how she couldn’t wait to redecorate “this ugly house.”