But when we returned, I found him in the kitchen, methodically ripping the floral wallpaper from the walls. Our children stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and confused. I asked him what he was doing, but he didn’t even look ashamed.
He just met my gaze with cold eyes and said, “I paid for this wallpaper. It’s mine.” But karma was watching…
My ex-husband once told me, “It’s just a little fun.” That’s how he described the affair that wrecked our marriage. Harmless, he claimed.
But when he came back after our divorce and started ripping wallpaper off the walls because he “paid for it,” karma decided it was her turn to have a little fun—at his expense. Eli and I were married for eight years. We had two children and lived in a cozy, sun-filled house I’d inherited from my grandmother.
It was more than just a home—it was a place full of stories, memories, and the scent of lavender baked into the walls. For years, I thought we had a good life. Eli had a decent job, I freelanced from home, and we managed the chaos of parenting with humor and grace—until I found out about his affair.
The first time, I forgave him. Against every instinct, I gave him another chance. I wanted to believe he regretted it.
That we could move on. But the second time? I didn’t wait for apologies.
I filed for divorce the same day. It hurt like hell, but I kept my dignity. The divorce was surprisingly smooth.
The house stayed with me—it had been in my name from the start—and our assets were split evenly. As for custody? Eli insisted I take the kids full-time.
“I’m not good with routines,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re better at that kind of stuff.”
Translation: “I don’t want the responsibility.”
Fine. I didn’t fight it.
The kids deserved consistency, not disappointment. Eli promised he’d be out of the house by that weekend. To give him space, I took our son, Alex, and our daughter, Mia, to stay with my mom for a few days.
When we came back, I expected quiet. Closure. Maybe even a little peace.
Instead, I walked into a scene straight out of a home renovation nightmare. The wallpaper in the hallway—the one my grandmother picked out decades ago, delicate blue roses climbing a pale background—was gone. The walls were raw and patchy, with strips of drywall poking out like bones.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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