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It was then that a light went off in my head. What would I be fighting to hold onto? I know some friends would’ve told me to stay, but that would only be to save face in front of other people who were enduring their own hell just to keep up appearances, no thanks.
I sat that day with my sick child and let all the emotions have their turn ripping me apart. At the end of the day, it wasn’t the sexual affair that bothered me the most; it was the emotional intimacy that ripped me apart.
The thought of him sharing what we once had with someone else. Laughing with her, telling her about his dreams, making plans with her. Those are the things that made my jealousy rabid.
It hadn’t always been like that, of course. At the beginning of our relationship, he was the most attentive, loving, kind, and compassionate boyfriend then husband. He spoiled me so much that I didn’t work the first few years of our marriage, even when there were no kids, because he didn’t want me to.
I was still in the fog of being in love back then and went along with it. Besides, I was busy overseeing the building of our forever home, then decorating the place from top to bottom, and all that entailed.
My son Jason came not long after we moved in, followed the year after by Dana, and Ashely wasn’t far behind. In between giving birth, I did my best to be the wife he wanted, and I wanted to be. Our sex lives suffered a bit, sure, but that was to be expected with three kids.
But somehow, I think in his head, after I gave birth, that was the end of motherhood, and all of my attention should go back to him. I wasn’t one of those mothers who neglected her husband, but I obviously had to care for my kids. Something I thought he and I were supposed to share.
It became more and more me stuck at home with the kids while all he did was complain about how things had changed. I thought I had married an adult who understood how these things worked, but apparently, I was wrong; no one ever took the time to teach him, I guess.
That’s what first alerted me to the fact that something stank in the state of Denmark. His constant complaints, the dead bedroom, which I honestly didn’t mind, because as good as his dick was, I was tired after running around behind kid all day, and I needed my rest. Not to mention, my body hadn’t bounced back from my last pregnancy, and I wasn’t feeling sexy in the least. I kept promising to get back in shape, but who had time for the gym with three young kids?
I could’ve hired a babysitter, but Justin was against strangers raising his kids like his ass was any help at all.
Anyway, once I suspected the affair, I bided my time and did some snooping on the down low. I never gave him any reason to think that I suspected him, and since he was no longer initiating sex with me because he was getting it elsewhere, I didn’t have to answer twenty questions when I turned him down, which I would have because, ew.
Once my suspicions were confirmed it all hit me at once. It’s one thing to suspect your husband is cheating and another kettle of fish to have proof. That proof came in the form of receipts for hotel rooms. I can’t tell you the last time he’d taken me out anywhere, let alone spent money on a hotel room for me.
I started collecting those receipts through the bank and put a trace on his car so I could document every time he was with her, where he went, and how much he spent.
Two years, it took two years for me to get myself together. It wasn’t all about collecting evidence, but I needed to be in the right frame of mind going forward. Oh, I knew from the moment I found the truth that we were done. I hate cheaters.
But I had kids and a life to think about. I hadn’t worked in almost ten years, had no real work experience, and had three kids under five. Where was I going? What was I going to do?
I guess assholes having affairs don’t stop long enough to learn the laws of the state they live in, but scorned wives with an ax to grind have all the time in the world.
I learned everything I needed to know about divorce in our state from the beginning. In fact, that was the catalyst for everything that came after. That was the first duck in my row of stone-cold vengeance.
When I served him the divorce papers over breakfast on a Saturday morning while the kids were with my parents, he almost shat himself right there at my table. “If you have anything to say, you can say it to my lawyer.” I placed the business card on top of the folder with the rest of the evidence.
“Callie, wait.”
“No, there’s nothing to wait for. I want you out of my house.”
“Get real, this is my home too.”
“Fine, then I’ll just let your mother and everyone else know what you’ve done.”
Like I said, I know him. He may get around his mom with lies maybe, but once she knows, his dad will too, and that is his biggest fear: disappointing his father, a man who does not believe in divorce and hates cheating and cheaters almost as much as I do.
He left kicking and screaming. The locksmith I reserved showed up half an hour later, and the rollercoaster to hell began. Why? Because as soon as my home was secure, I called everyone and told them what he had done to me and my kids.
I told them who, where, and when, and all hell broke loose. I never took to social media other than to announce the split and our mutual friends took care of the rest. Since I accidentally, on purpose, let her name slip and the fact that she was a new hire at his place of business, she wasn’t spared.
I watched for weeks and she and them fought back and forth on social media and didn’t say one word. Justin never got the chance to grovel because I didn’t give him one. There was always a mediator in the room when we met with our lawyers because I refused to acknowledge his presence; he was dead to me. When it came to custody, there is an app for that so there was no need for words spoken between us at any given time unless it was an emergency with one of my kids.
At this point, Daisy Dukes hadn’t bothered with me; that started after the divorce when I walked away with everything. That’s when the phone calls and the passive-aggressive social media posts started.
I used that shit to fire up my workout routine. I put my muscles through hell from the anger that ensued each time that hag called my phone or sent another message.
You might ask yourself why I didn’t just block her. By then, I had my plan in place; the plan had been written right along with my plans for divorce. I channeled all my anger and rage into planning how I was going to make the two of them pay for hurting me and my babies.
I never said a cross word to him after the day I asked for the divorce; every time he came to pick up the kids I was personable but always too busy for chitchat. All the while, I was getting my body back in shape and giving up my mommy clothes for more fashionable wear. Nothing flashy, mind you. But I know my ass looks good in jeans, not to mention the many times I just so happened to be coming back from mommy and me yoga class with the baby while the others were with the babysitter I’d hired for a few evenings a week.
