I did everything I could for my husband, Aiden. Between long hours at my job as a project manager and managing our home alone,
I was exhausted. He never helped — not with the cooking, the cleaning, or even a kind word.
No matter what I did, he always seemed dissatisfied. One night, I came home late from work and he snapped at me:
“Where have you been?” “I told you — I had a long day,” I replied. “Whatever. I’m hungry.
Make dinner,” he said, eyes still glued to the TV. I was too tired to argue. That night, I cried myself to sleep.
The next morning, sick and drained, I stayed home. That’s when I heard voices in the hallway — Aiden and a woman.
“Get out, I think she’s home,” he whispered. “When will we meet?” she asked. “Weekend.
I’ll pick a fight and we’ll leave for two days,” he said, as she giggled and hugged him. I stood frozen.
He brought another woman into our home and didn’t even try to hide it.
That was it. Once he left, I called a locksmith, changed the locks, and packed all his belongings.
I cleaned the house of everything that reminded me of him.
When he returned and found his keys no longer worked, he was furious.
“What’s going on, Claire?” he asked. “This is your goodbye, Aiden. I know everything. You don’t love me — you used me.
Go to your mistress. I’m done.” He stood there stunned, like he didn’t recognize me. But I finally recognized myself.
