My husband left me. 

— You don’t take care of yourself. You’re always in the same bathrobe, you don’t want to go for a run, and the only things that interest you are soup and the grandchildren. I’m tired. I want a well-groomed, interesting woman by my side. We’re the same age, but you look like my mother, he said to me in the end, which really hurt.

But instead of feeling sorry for myself and suffering over the divorce, I decided to take revenge on my ex-husband. Three months later, he called and begged for my forgiveness, but I refused and I don’t regret it.

Here’s how I got my revenge. The continuation is in the first comment 

He really left me. He said: “That’s it, I can’t anymore” – and left.

I sat at the kitchen table, staring at my empty mug, not understanding what was happening around me.

I sighed deeply. The strangest part wasn’t that my husband left me. The strangest part was that I wasn’t even surprised. It had all been leading up to this.

Honestly, I hadn’t felt like a wife for ten years. I was living for others. And he… he was living in his own world.

Gym three times a week, healthy eating, training, marathons. Even at sixty, he looked like an advertisement: toned, always in tight T-shirts, with an even tan — in winter! — and lightly dyed temples.

Our son agreed: “Dad’s right, Mom, you should also go to the gym, see a beautician, diet…” I just waved it off. No time for diets when there are three pots cooking on the stove and a to-do list on the fridge.

And then… one day he just came in and said:

— I’m leaving. We have nothing in common. I want to live, breathe. And you…

He hesitated but continued:

— You’ve stopped being a woman. You’ve become a grandmother. A housewife. And I want someone lively by my side.

I was silent. Then I just sat on the couch and said:

— Go ahead. Since you’ve started.

He shrugged:

— You don’t take care of yourself. You’re always in the same bathrobe, you don’t want to go for a run, and the only things that interest you are soup and the grandchildren’s socks. I’m tired. I want a well-groomed, interesting woman by my side. We’re the same age, but you look like my mother.

Two days later, he packed his suitcase, left the keys on the table, and left.

A month went by. Then another. The divorce was processed quickly. I sold my share of the apartment, rented a small studio on the outskirts of town. I bought a floral kettle, a blanket with sheep on it, and — for the first time in years — red lipstick.

A friend took me to the hairdresser. New haircut, coloring, care.

And suddenly… it got easier. My dreams became calmer. Mornings — coffee, a walk in the park. No rush. The grandchildren came — but not every day. And in this silence, for the first time in years, I heard myself.

Three months after the divorce, my ex-husband called.

— You know, you… look good. I saw the pictures of the grandchildren.

— Thank you. I’m living for myself now.

— Maybe we could meet? Have a coffee…

— No. Thank you. I have other plans now.

I hung up. No tears. No regrets.

What do you think, did I do the right thing?