“Lauren, I want a divorce.”

He said it while standing beside his mistress, who looked me up and down and smirked, commenting on how I’d “let myself go.” Four kids. Years of sacrifice. And just like that, our life was dismissed.

That night, after the kids fell asleep, I cried quietly over the kitchen sink. Not because I wanted him back—but because I had given everything to someone who valued none of it.

I left. Took the kids. Slept on my sister’s floor. The divorce was ugly, exhausting, and lonely. But staying would have destroyed me.

What followed wasn’t glamorous. A tiny apartment. Bills that didn’t care how tired I was. Healing that came slowly, in small pieces—morning walks, therapy sessions I could barely afford, writing out feelings instead of swallowing them.

And one day, without realizing when it happened, I was okay. Not bitter. Not angry. Just… free.

Then I saw them again.

Rainy day. Grocery bags in my arms. My ex looked worn down. Older. Stressed. Miranda looked irritated, snapping at him. Their “dream life” looked nothing like the fantasy they destroyed our family for.

A week later, he texted an apology.

I didn’t reply.

Because karma didn’t destroy them—it rebuilt me.

I didn’t get revenge.
I got peace.
Confidence.
A life that finally felt like mine.

And that’s the real win.