I did everything for my husband, but nothing was ever enough.
I worked long hours as a bank project manager while also handling almost everything at home. Aiden barely helped, constantly complained, and treated me like his personal servant.
One morning, while I was sick in bed, I heard a woman’s voice in the hallway.
I quietly opened the door.
There stood a beautiful brunette in my home.
“When will we meet again?” she asked.
“This weekend,” Aiden replied. “I’ll pick a fight with my wife, then we can go away together.”
She jumped into his arms.
I was devastated—but something inside me finally snapped.
I had spent years asking myself what I was doing wrong.
Now I knew.
The problem wasn’t me.
As soon as Aiden left for work, I called a locksmith. The apartment was mine.
Then I packed every single one of his belongings into boxes and suitcases.
When he returned, his keys no longer worked.
“What happened to the lock?” he demanded.
I opened the door.
“This is where you leave, Aiden. I’m done.”
He stared at his belongings.
“I know about her. I’m filing for divorce.”
He threatened that I would regret it.
I didn’t.
A month later, our divorce was official.
Aiden tried to come back, but I refused.
For the first time, I chose myself.
I started therapy, rebuilt my confidence, and learned something I should have known all along:
Love should never require you to lose yourself.