Eight years of marriage. Shattered in one breath. My husband, Mike, brought home his pregnant mistress and kicked me out. But I unpacked a brilliant revenge plan.
That fateful Tuesday evening, I walked into our living room to find a pregnant woman eating chips on our couch. Mike’s casual introduction: “This is Jessica. She’s pregnant. With my child.” My world crumbled.
Mike’s audacity knew no bounds. “Move out,” he said. “Jess and I will take over the house.” I blinked, expecting Ashton Kutcher to jump out and yell “Punk’d!” But no.
I packed, calm on the surface, raging beneath. The next day, I froze our joint account, changed the locks, and hired movers to pack up everything. The pièce de résistance? A billboard on our front lawn: “Congratulations on Dumping Me for Your Pregnant Mistress, Mike!”
Party invitations followed, sent to Mike’s family, friends, and coworkers. The surprise party would be a spectacle. Mike’s aneurysm-inducing phone call was music to my ears.
But I wasn’t done. Utilities cut off, cable canceled, joint assets transferred. I listed the house for sale, highlighting the “bonus front lawn art installation.” Divorce papers served at work, delivered by a pregnant mailman.
Jessica called, crying, apologizing. Mike was broke and homeless. I suggested a juggling duo: “You juggle the baby, he juggles his lies?” She didn’t appreciate my humor.
Karma caught up with Mike. Jessica dumped him, and he was left with nothing. His family disowned him, sending me a fruit basket and apology.
I moved on, starting my own business, adopting a cat named Karma. The house sold, and I soaked in my new jacuzzi, savoring the taste of lemonade made from life’s lemons.
Cheaters never prosper, but the cheated-on with humor and flair? We do just fine. Remember, when life gives you lemons, squeeze them into the eyes of those who wronged you. Watch them stumble, blindly.
