Pregnancy was supposed to be the beginning of a new chapter for us. I imagined late-night talks about baby names, him holding my hand at doctor visits, maybe even cravings runs at midnight. What I didnāt expect was to become invisible in my own marriage the moment my body started to change.
It began subtlyācomments about my appearance, small digs about my clothes. āYou could at least try not to look like you gave up,ā he muttered one evening as I sat on the couch in my third pair of maternity leggings, holding back another wave of nausea.
I told myself it was stress. First-time father nerves, maybe. But the cracks widened fast. By the time I was eight months along, Arnie didnāt even try to hide it anymore. Heād come home late, reeking of perfume that wasnāt mine, and bark about the dishes or the laundry or why I wasnāt āin the mood.ā
One night, I asked where heād been. He didnāt even look at me when he said, āNone of your business.ā Then he shouted for dinner like I was his servant, not his pregnant wife struggling to breathe under the weight of our daughter.
The next morning, he was gone. A text from his mother said he needed āspace.ā Thatās when I knewāI was carrying a child for a man who saw me as nothing more than a burden.
When he came back, he brought someone else with him. Stacy. She was young, glossy, and clung to his arm like a prize. He looked me in the eye and said, āThis is my girlfriend. I want a divorce.ā
I donāt know what hurt moreāthe words, or how proud he seemed saying them.
I was heartbroken. But not broken. And what Arnie didnāt know was that I had been quietly building something he never saw coming.
Because somewhere between his insults and absences, I stopped hoping heād changeāand started planning.
So I played my part. I cried, signed the divorce papers he smugly dropped on my table, let him think he was winning. But behind the scenes, I worked with a lawyer. I used the fact that he never read fine print, never paid attention to what he signed. I also worked with someone elseāStacy.
Because Stacy wasnāt who Arnie thought she was.
She was my ally. A hired actress. She played the perfect mistress, coaxed him into signing over assets, sweet-talked him into giving up rights he didnāt even realize he had. The house, the savings, even part of the business we once sharedāit was mine now.
Arnie thought he traded me for a fantasy. He had no idea Iād made sure the fantasy would bankrupt him.
By the time Riley was born, he was out of the picture. I held my daughter in my arms and knew this was the beginning I deserved. Not just for herābut for me, too.
Months later, Stacy showed up, just like weād planned.
āItās done,ā she said with a smile. āHeās got nothing left.ā
Soon after, he showed up at my doorstep. No car, no house, no Stacy. Just empty hands and desperation.
āPlease,ā he begged. āTake me back.ā
I looked at him, the man who mocked my swollen ankles and ignored my tears, who called me lazy and unlovable.
āNo,ā I said, with all the calm and clarity I wished Iād had sooner.
āYouāll regret this,ā he spat.
I smiled. āNo, Arnie. I already regret giving you so many chances. This? This is just me finally getting it right.ā
And with that, I closed the door.
Because sometimes karma doesnāt knock. Sometimes, sheās already inside the houseācleaning up the mess, rebuilding from the ashes, and holding a baby in one hand and a deed in the other.