Marriage with Logan was a rollercoaster I didn’t sign up for. Five years in, what started as love faded when we couldn’t have kids. I sank, hating myself, while he chased a new car and gym time over us. I clung to hope, but last night, my friend Lola pulled me to a jazz club to unwind. The tunes were smooth, the drinks cold—until Lola went quiet. “That’s Logan,” she muttered. I turned, and there he was, cuddling a woman, laughing like I was nothing. I lost it, charging over. “Seriously?” I yelled. He smirked, cool as ice. “Glad you know. I love Brenda. We’re through.” She beamed, victorious, and I stood there, gutted. Lola hauled me to her place, where I sobbed till dawn. I went home next morning to face him, but the sight stopped me dead—my stuff dumped on the lawn, ruined.
Logan and Brenda loomed on the porch, gloating. “Grandpa’s house,” he said. “You’re out. Take your junk.” I packed my car, silent, as Brenda chirped, “This place is so dated—I’ll fix it.” Humiliation stung, but I held it in. Then a car roared up—Mr. Duncan, Logan’s grandpa, climbed out, eyes blazing. He’s a hard-earned millionaire who always liked me, and now he was mad. “Explain this!” he thundered. Logan fumbled, but Mr. Duncan roared, “You ditch Natasha for her? My house, my rules—she stays, you go. And you’re cut off—no more money for this garbage.” Logan’s face drained, Brenda shrank, and they fled. Mr. Duncan turned to me, kind. “I came to help with IVF, not this. The house is yours—I’ll sign it over. Logan’s my mistake.” I teared up, overwhelmed.
The deed switched to me fast, and Brenda bailed when Logan’s funds dried up. A week later, he slunk back, wrecked, begging, “Get Grandpa to save me—I’ve got nothing.” No sorry, just desperation. “You earned this,” I said, slamming the door on his shouts. It felt amazing. He’s homeless now, and I’ve got the keys—and my pride.
