David came home as usual, the sound of his dress shoes dull against the hardwood. He carelessly dropped his leather bag and jacket onto the sofa, and I walked over, picked them up, and hung them on the coat rack by the door.
“Welcome back,” I said.
“I made hamburgers for dinner.”
“I’m going to take a bath,” he replied, without looking at me, and headed straight for the bathroom.
We’d been married for three years, and there had been very little kindness or consideration from him in all that time.
I sometimes wondered if this was what a marriage was supposed to feel like in real life—two people living side by side more like roommates than partners—but most days I just told myself it was easier to accept things than to fight.
When David came back out in his pajamas and flopped onto the sofa, I handed him a drink.
“Where’s the beer?” he asked, glancing toward the little bar cart pushed up against the wall.
“I… I’m sorry,” I said. “I forgot to buy it today. I’ll pick some up tomorrow.”
“Seriously?” His expression hardened immediately.
“Go to the convenience store now.”
His sudden change in demeanor irritated me.
I stared at my big belly, at the way my shirt stretched over it.
“Why do I have to go?” I asked, my voice tight. “If you want beer that badly, why don’t you go yourself?
It’s hard for me to move around with this belly.”
He got even angrier and started shouting. “You’re the one who forgot to buy it.
It’s your job to fix that mistake.
Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you get special treatment. My mother always says it’s important to keep moving for your health.”
I knew from experience that he didn’t calm down easily once he was angry. The veins in his neck were standing out; the TV flickered behind him with some baseball game he wasn’t even watching.
Reluctantly, I grabbed my wallet and keys.
“I’ll go,” I murmured.
The evening air outside was cool and dry, the streetlights casting long shadows over parked cars.
As I walked toward the 24-hour convenience store on the corner—past neatly trimmed lawns and a big American flag fluttering from a neighbor’s porch—I tried to swallow my frustration.
Once I arrived, I bumped into Sarah, a neighbor who lived a few houses down. She was holding a bottle of barbecue sauce and a small shopping basket.
“Oh, Sarah, good evening,” I said.
“Good evening, Lisa,” she replied, her smile warm.
“Did you forget to buy something too? I ran out of sauce, so I rushed over here.”
Her cheerful voice lifted my spirits a little.
“My husband really wanted beer,” I admitted.
“He told me to come buy it.
I suggested he go himself, but that didn’t go over well.”
“It sounds like you’re having a tough time, Lisa,” she said gently.
We chatted for a few minutes, walking back along the suburban sidewalk together until we reached the crossroad where our ways parted. After saying goodbye, I headed home alone with the paper bag of clinking bottles.
When I opened the door, David was sprawled on the sofa watching TV, the dinner table still messy from the meal.
“Why did it take you so long?” he snapped. “What were you dawdling around for?
Give me the beer.”
His disgruntled tone and insensitive words made my chest ache.
I handed him the beer without saying anything and started clearing the dishes, scraping food into the trash and loading the dishwasher.
How could he say things like that to me, especially when I was pregnant? I wanted to answer back, but I didn’t want another shouting match.
So I held everything in. After cleaning up, I ate my own dinner alone, took a long bath, and went to bed without waiting for him.
The next morning, David acted as if nothing had happened.
He shook the sleep from his hair, tied his tie in the bathroom mirror, and scrolled through his phone like any other day.
I, however, couldn’t forget his words from the night before, and I was cold toward him on purpose.
“Why are you making that face so early in the morning?” he complained.
“Don’t take it out on me. I’m heading to work now, so be a bit considerate, okay? You know the importance of appreciation, right?”
For a moment, I was filled with the urge to throw his own words back at him—That applies to you, doesn’t it?—but the shock and disbelief choked the reply in my throat.
I simply sighed, handed him his lunch, and walked him to the door.
“Be careful,” I said automatically.
“I want a proper dinner tonight,” he threw over his shoulder.
“See you.”
Without any further explanation, David rushed out, slamming the door behind him.
After he left, I took care of household chores and went shopping as usual. He had mentioned he wouldn’t be having dinner at home because of a company drinking party, so I decided to prepare something simple just for myself that evening.
Later, as I was about to start my solo dinner in the quiet kitchen, I heard the front door open and hurried to the entrance.
“I’m back,” David said.
“Long day.”
“Thanks for your hard work,” I answered automatically. “But you said you didn’t need dinner today, remember?”
“Yeah, well, the drinking party got cancelled,” he said, kicking off his shoes.
“I’m hungry.
You have something to eat, right?”
“I… only prepared a meal for myself,” I admitted.
His face contorted with anger.
“You didn’t even consider the possibility I might come back?” he shouted. “Unbelievable.”
He stalked into the dining area, looked at the simple plate I’d prepared for myself, and his mood worsened.
“What do you call this? A meal?” he scoffed.
“I seriously question whether you’re properly doing your duties as a housewife.
Don’t waste the money I’m working for.”
“I quickly put something together just for me,” I said quietly. “Please don’t be so angry.
If you don’t like it, I can—”
“Maybe you should learn proper cooking from my mom,” he cut in. “Honestly, I’ve always found your cooking lacking.”
Once again he was comparing me to his mother, and he didn’t seem to realize how hurtful those comparisons were.
Every sentence felt like a little cut.
“I can’t eat this,” he said coldly.
“Go buy something.”
My heart sank lower.
“It’s already late,” I replied. “I’ve taken a bath and changed. Can’t you go buy it yourself, just this once?”
“Forget it,” he snapped.
“You forgot to buy beer yesterday, didn’t prepare dinner today… this is so frustrating.
I’m going back to my parents’ place.”
He stormed out, and the door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. For a moment, I just stood in the silence of our little living room, listening to the humming refrigerator and the distant sound of a car passing on our street.
Then, strangely, I felt a small sense of relief at being alone.
The next morning, as I expected, my phone lit up with an angry call from David’s mother.
“How can you not serve David a proper meal?” she demanded in a sharp voice that carried straight through the speaker.
“This feels like harassment, if not worse.”
I explained what had happened the night before, but she refused to accept my side of the story at all. In the end, I apologized out of sheer exhaustion and ended the call.
After that, my mood sank even further.
Since David wasn’t home, I made myself a leisurely late brunch, sitting by the kitchen window and watching cars turning into driveways up and down the street.
But the thought of him coming back that night weighed heavily on my mind. Considering the fiasco from the day before, I decided to make that evening’s dinner special.
I went to the supermarket and shopped more carefully than usual, picking out fresh ingredients and adding his favorite brand of beer to the cart. I shortened my blog update so I could spend more time cooking.
By the time I finished preparing everything, the table looked beautiful—almost like a special occasion, with dishes laid out neatly and a little vase of flowers in the center.
Looking at it all, I felt a small sense of accomplishment and couldn’t help praising myself quietly.
With this, he should definitely be satisfied.
I waited in the dining room for David to come home. The clock on the wall ticked past seven, then eight.
There was no sign of him. I tried calling his phone several times, but there was no answer.
My texts were left unread.
As time crawled by—one hour, then two—I grew increasingly anxious.
Had he gone to his parents’ house again? I called them to check, but they said he hadn’t been there either. I tried David’s phone multiple times, but there was still no response.
As midnight approached, I stood in the dimly lit living room, staring at the front door and wondering if I should contact the police.
Just then, I heard someone fumbling with the doorknob.
The door opened, and David staggered in, clearly drunk, the smell of alcohol washing over me.
“I’m home,” he hiccuped.
I rushed to the entrance and found him lying half-sprawled on the hallway floor, one shoe half-off.
“What happened? Are you okay?” I asked, reaching out.
“Too loud,” he muttered angrily.
“Go away.”
He staggered toward the dining room, and when I tried to support him, he violently shook off my hand.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me with that ugly face,” he slurred.
“To think you’re my wife…”
Then he just lay down right there on the floor, like a dropped coat.
His words were beyond shocking.
Why? Why couldn’t he consider anyone’s feelings other than his own? His drunken cruelty hurt me so deeply that for a second I couldn’t breathe.
I wondered if he even saw me as family anymore.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at the untouched dinner still waiting on the table.
I had put so much effort into cooking, and it had all been for nothing. In the end, I quietly ate my cold meal alone and went to bed, wrapped in loneliness.
The next morning, David woke up acting as if nothing had happened.
“My head hurts,” he groaned, rubbing his temples.
“I guess I drank too much. But why did you just leave me in the hallway?”
“You chose to lie down there, David,” I said steadily.
“That was your decision, not mine.”
“Aren’t you my wife?” he shot back.
“At least take care of me when I’m drunk.”
His words made me wonder why he always blamed me first. Why was it always my fault?
“If you weren’t going to eat at home, you could have at least let me know,” I said. “I prepared a nice meal, and I called you multiple times.
Why didn’t you answer?”
He shrugged, still not looking at me.
“My drinking party from the day before got rescheduled to yesterday,” he said dully. “Do I have to report every little thing?
Besides, you know how hard it is to pick up the phone during a gathering. Think about my situation.”
With every word, my heart grew colder.
My expectations for him slowly shrank down to almost nothing.
I told myself that if I expected less, I wouldn’t feel as hurt or disappointed.
“I’m taking a break and going back to my parents’ home tomorrow,” he announced soon after. “Being with you lately feels unpleasant and boring.”
Seeing his attitude—his obvious sense of superiority—made me start to seriously consider divorce. But our baby was due soon, and that complicated everything.
Our baby.
Just thinking those words made my heart race with anticipation.
I had heard stories from friends about the pain of labor, but my excitement at meeting the little life inside me overshadowed those fears. Neighbors in our community often smiled and called out from their porches, “Just a little while longer now, Lisa,” and their encouragement brightened my mood.
One evening after work, David came home and made a surprising suggestion.
“Let’s go on a family trip soon,” he said casually, kicking off his work shoes and heading straight for the couch.
“Really?” I asked.
“You mean the three of us, after the baby’s born?”
“I’m talking about a family trip,” he said. “My mom and dad want to join.”
I was taken aback.
There had always been tension between me and David’s parents.
Whenever something happened concerning David, they blamed me without hesitation, like with the phone call about the dinner. The sudden idea of a trip with them made every muscle in my body go tense.
“I’m about to give birth,” I said carefully. “Traveling a long distance right now might be risky for the baby.”
“How many times do I have to tell you?” David snapped.
“Just because you’re pregnant doesn’t mean you’re sick.
My parents are thoughtfully inviting us.”
“But what if something happens while we’re away?” I asked. “It’s a long drive, and—”
“It’ll be fine,” he cut me off.
“Everything’s already decided. We’ll go for two nights and three days next week.”
“Next week?” My voice rose.
“Next week is my due date.
That’s—”
“Just do as you’re told,” he said sharply. “Prepare for the trip. End of discussion.”
He made his declaration and walked out of the room, leaving me staring at the wall, my hand resting protectively over my belly.
“I’m in trouble now,” I thought, the words sounding small even in my own head.
The next day, I met up with a close friend at a café near the hospital and explained the situation.
She listened, her brow furrowing deeper and deeper.
“That’s more than a bit too much,” she said.
“You need to think about you and the baby before anything else.”
I kept turning her words over in my mind, trying to figure out how to refuse the trip. But while I hesitated, the day of departure suddenly arrived, as if the calendar had skipped ahead without asking me.
“Actually, I’m not feeling well today,” I told David that morning, one hand pressed into the small of my back.
“I’m worried about the baby, so I’m going to rest at home.”
He looked unconvinced, his keys already in his hand.
“Anyway, you can just rest in the car,” he said impatiently. “You’ll be fine, right?
Come on, bring the luggage.
We’re heading to my parents’ place, so hurry up.”
As we walked out to the driveway, I felt a knot of worry tightening in my stomach. The sky was bright and cloudless, the American flag on our neighbor’s porch snapping in the breeze, but my thoughts were heavy. After loading our luggage into the trunk, I eased myself into the passenger seat, adjusting my seat belt carefully across my belly.
Just as David started the engine, I felt a sudden warmth at my feet.
I looked down.
Water was spreading across the floor mat.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “My water broke.”
I turned to David, my heart pounding.
“David, I think my water just broke. Please take me to the hospital.
Quickly.”
He stared at my feet, frozen for a moment.
Then, taken aback by the situation, he blurted, “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the panic rising inside me. “We need to go to the hospital now. The baby might be coming.”
While I pressed a towel between my knees, trying to stop the fluid from soaking everything, David suddenly opened the passenger door.
“David, what are you doing?
We need to go to the hospital,” I said.
“Get out,” he snapped.
“You’re going to make a mess in the car.”
I stared at him, completely shocked. “What are you saying?”
“I said get out.
I need to clean the car,” he insisted.
Then he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the seat. My legs trembled as I tried to balance on the driveway.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered.
“We were supposed to be on a family trip.
Just go to the hospital by yourself.”
I was too stunned to respond. “Wait!” I cried, clutching my belly. “How can you leave me here like this?”
But he had already slid back behind the wheel.
The engine revved, the tires rolled over the concrete, and he drove away, leaving me standing in our suburban driveway in my loose maternity clothes, my water broken, the world suddenly too bright and too sharp.
Feeling overwhelmed, I grabbed my phone and dialed for an ambulance with shaking fingers.
As I stood there, trying to breathe through the first contractions, someone approached.
“Lisa, are you okay?” a familiar voice asked.
It was Sarah, her face filled with concern. She must have seen everything from her front yard or through her living room window.
“Oh my God,” she said, taking in the scene.
“You’re in labor.”
Sarah immediately understood my predicament and, after talking quickly with the dispatcher, arranged for a special taxi that could take me to the hospital faster than the ambulance they said might be delayed. She stayed by my side, supporting my arm as we waited, talking softly to keep me calm while I breathed through the pain.
Gratitude and relief washed over me, and tears streamed down my face.
Soon after, thanks to Sarah’s help, I safely arrived at the hospital’s maternity ward.
As nurses wheeled me toward a room, Sarah walked alongside, holding my hand.
On the way, as the fluorescent lights passed overhead, I made a silent vow.
I will make him pay for this.
Even as the labor pains intensified, Sarah kept her hand wrapped around mine. After I was settled in the room, she called my parents, who lived ten minutes away on the other side of town. They arrived not long after, their faces tight with worry.
“There’s something I want to discuss,” Sarah whispered to them, and the three of them stepped out into the hallway together.
As the contractions sharpened, my smartphone vibrated from a corner of the room.
I grimaced, breathing through another wave.
“Who is it?” I asked.
My parents checked the screen, their expressions darkening.
“It’s David,” my father said, displeasure clear in his voice.
Despite everything, I took the call.
As soon as I answered, I heard David’s panicked voice.
“Help me—”
But I was in no state, or mood, to listen to him. I ended the call immediately, and my parents turned off the phone and set it facedown.
Even after that, messages from him continued to pour in, but I no longer saw them.
As the labor intensified, the nurses finally moved me into the delivery room. Time blurred into a painful, gasping haze.
After what felt like an eternity, the pain crashed one last time and then broke, and I finally heard the high, clear cries of my baby.
Exhausted, I let my head sink back against the pillow.
Through bleary eyes, I saw my parents and Sarah standing behind the glass with warm smiles. Relief flooded me, and I closed my eyes, letting sleep take me.
When I woke up a few hours later, I was lying in a quiet hospital room. The afternoon light filtered through half-closed blinds, making soft stripes on the walls.
My parents were sitting beside my bed, their faces filled with concern and tenderness.
“Are you okay?” my mother asked gently.
Still feeling the weight of exhaustion, I couldn’t fully sit up.
My father’s eyes were shiny, and my mother softly reassured him that the postpartum period could be exhausting.
Witnessing that heartwarming scene—my parents here, steady and present, after everything—I felt a small smile form on my lips.
“How’s the baby?” I asked.
My parents told me that the baby was undergoing some routine tests in the nursery but would be brought back soon. I glanced around, noticing that Sarah wasn’t in the room.
“Sarah left a little while ago,” my mother said, as if reading my thoughts.
“She said she’d be back soon.”
Thinking of how differently this day could have turned out if Sarah hadn’t been there, gratitude settled heavily in my chest. I promised my parents that after I was discharged, we would visit Sarah and thank her properly.
Later, I turned on my phone to inform my friends about the birth.
The screen lit up with an overwhelming number of missed calls, most of them from David.
For a moment, I just stared at the list scrolling down and down. But I felt no hope or expectation from his calls anymore. I closed the notifications without hesitation.
One of my close friends came by the hospital to congratulate me.
She brought flowers and balloons and hugged me carefully.
“I’m so happy for you,” she said.
“Your baby is beautiful.”
As she rejoiced and offered genuine congratulations, I found myself opening up and telling her about everything that had happened with David—the fight over the beer, the ruined dinners, leaving me in the hallway, insisting on the family trip, my water breaking, and him driving away.
Hearing the story, she gasped in shock and anger, her hands balling into fists.
“I swear, I’d love to punish him a little for this,” she said, half-joking, half-serious. Then she softened.
“But right now, your health and rest are the most important things. Focus on you and your baby first.”
We talked for a while longer, and then she left, promising to check in again.
My parents, already fully informed by Sarah about the entire episode, looked at me seriously.
“What are you planning to do next?” they asked.
I took a breath and shared my thoughts about my relationship with David.
“I’m considering divorce,” I said.
They listened silently and then nodded.
They respected my decision and promised their full support.
When I was discharged, I planned to stay at my parents’ home. They had already prepared a small room for me and the baby, complete with a crib and a mobile of little stars.
Meanwhile, it seemed David had tried to visit the hospital, but because I had already informed the staff that I didn’t wish to see him, he was not allowed into my room. The nurses and doctors, aware of my situation, were quietly protective.
The next day, Sarah came to my hospital room holding a fruit basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a ribbon.
“Sarah, you came,” I said, genuinely delighted.
“You seem to be recovering well,” she said, setting the basket on the side table.
“But remember not to overexert yourself.
Postpartum fatigue can be pretty intense.”
Her calm voice comforted me, and I let out a long sigh of relief.
“Sarah, thank you so much for helping me,” I said, bowing my head. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”
She laughed softly.
“What’s most important is that both you and the baby are healthy,” she said. “That’s all I care about.
I just wanted to lend a hand where I could.”
“Regardless, I’m forever grateful,” I insisted.
“Once things settle down, I’ll come over with my parents and thank you properly.”
Sarah smiled warmly. “You know, I’ve talked to my husband about what happened,” she added. “He was… quite furious.”
From her tone, I could imagine just how angry he’d been.
“Sarah, I’m truly sorry for dragging you into this mess,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied.
“Remember who you owe for being able to work at your current company.”
There was a new firmness in her voice that I’d never heard before.
Sarah was actually the wife of the CEO at the company where David worked.
When we first moved into this residential neighborhood outside Denver, I had no idea. We only met as neighbors: in the supermarket aisles, at the local coffee shop, passing each other at the convenience store.
Over time, we began to chat more and more. Eventually, we started enjoying tea together at her house, and during those afternoons I learned what her husband did and how respected he was.
David, however, was completely unaware of this.
He hadn’t even come with me when we did our initial neighborhood greetings, and he didn’t like interacting with neighbors.
Sarah had once told me gently, “I don’t want to cause any trouble at his workplace, so please don’t tell your husband about us,” and I had respected that request.
Knowing that I was pregnant and still being forced to endure David’s unreasonable behavior, Sarah had suggested several times, “Should I talk to my husband about this?” But I had always declined, not wanting to cause problems at David’s job.
With this latest incident, though, maybe even Sarah had reached her limit. That was probably why David kept calling her, too, after everything blew up.
“I really can’t thank you enough for everything,” I said, my voice catching.
Sarah’s strong words and unwavering support made me realize how fortunate I was to have someone willing to go to such lengths for me. I felt tears well up again.
Seeing my reaction, she gave me another warm smile.
“Lisa, you’re a dear friend to me,” she said.
“I can’t just stand by and watch when something like this happens to a friend.”
Our conversation was filled with genuine smiles and small moments of silence. However, my phone still buzzed periodically with notifications.
Despite the barrage of messages from David, I consciously ignored them.
Thinking about divorce made my mind feel clearer. All I wanted now was to think about how to live my life with my baby, safely and peacefully.
A day or two before I was scheduled to leave the hospital, another close friend visited my room, this time holding her smartphone instead of flowers.
“I want you to see this,” she said, handing it to me.
On the screen was a post that had become a major topic on a certain social media platform.
The view count ticked upward in real time.
“What is this?” I asked.
“I posted about what your husband did,” she admitted.
“And then something unexpected happened.”
She had a significant influence online, with a large number of followers. One day, she received a reply to one of her posts from a follower who, by chance, had captured a video of the exact scene where I was yelled at by my husband and left beside the car in our driveway. The follower, wanting to protect my privacy, blurred my face in the video.
With my friend’s permission, they shared it online.
The video spread like wildfire.
The suburban houses, the Colorado plates on the car, the sound of David’s angry voice—it all became viral. Internet users dug deeper and quickly discovered personal details about David and even his company.
Right now, according to my friend, he seemed to be under a barrage of criticism online.
“I had no idea it had escalated to this level,” I murmured, stunned.
“Well, they brought it upon themselves, didn’t they?” my friend said gently. “Your husband’s actions, and their consequences, are all the result of choices he made.”
Furthermore, when one of David’s friends confronted him about the incident, David reportedly tried to excuse himself.
“I had a prior travel commitment with my parents that day, so I had no choice,” he’d said.
Because of that statement, not only David but also his parents began to face criticism online.
The story spread even in the vicinity of my in-laws’ home, and various topics related to them started circulating on social media—whispers about how they raised their son, about what kind of people would let this happen.
Suddenly my phone started ringing again.
When I checked the screen, it was a call from my mother-in-law.
My friend, peeking at the display with interest, said, “Why don’t you pick up and give her a piece of your mind?”
But I was so fed up that I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to say. Instead, I let the call ring out and then silenced it. Before long, the missed call log was filled with the names of my husband, father-in-law, and mother-in-law.
Ever since the incident had been highlighted on social media, even the hospital staff seemed to be aware of my situation.
Nurses and doctors offered quiet, genuine support—an extra smile, a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
Whether my husband or in-laws came to the hospital or called multiple times, the staff did not allow them to make contact with me.
As my discharge date approached, I had one pressing worry: whether David and his parents might be lurking somewhere outside the hospital, waiting to ambush me as I left.
My parents reassured me over and over. “You have nothing to worry about,” they said.
“We won’t let anything happen.”
But the thought of my precious baby being in danger left me anxious.
That concern was quickly dispelled.
On the day of my discharge, as my parents helped me with my belongings and the nurse wheeled the car seat out, I heard David’s voice echo down the hallway.
“Lisa!” he shouted.
My in-laws’ voices followed, loud and insistent. Just as my heart started to race, men in black suits appeared seemingly out of nowhere, moving with calm coordination.
They surrounded me and my parents, forming a protective barrier as we walked toward the hospital’s front entrance.
As I tried to understand what was happening, one of the men stepped closer, opened the door of a sleek black car, and said in a gentle tone, “Don’t worry.
We’re here on sir’s request to protect you, ma’am.”
It seemed my parents already knew about this. My mother smiled.
“Didn’t I tell you there was nothing to worry about?” she said quietly.
Believing her, I felt relief wash through me. I climbed into the car with my baby in my arms, my parents following.
All the while, David and my in-laws, overwhelmed by the imposing presence of the bodyguards, couldn’t come any closer than the edge of the sidewalk.
The hospital’s automatic doors slid closed behind us, cutting off their voices.
As the car pulled away from the curb, I couldn’t find the words to express how grateful I was for Sarah and her husband. The only thing occupying my mind was how to repay their kindness.
My parents felt the same.
“We have to find a way to show our gratitude to Sarah,” they said in unison.
Although my new life at my parents’ house began smoothly and pleasant days started to follow one after another, the calls and texts from David and his parents did not stop.
I mailed them the divorce papers, but there wasn’t even a hint of acceptance at first.
One day, my in-laws called our home. My father answered, calmly at first.
“She became a part of our family,” they said, their tone full of entitlement.
“So no matter how she’s treated, she shouldn’t complain.”
My father’s patience snapped.
“Is that what you really believe?” he shot back, voice fierce now.
“Then maybe you don’t deserve a daughter-in-law at all.”
It seemed they were taken aback by his anger, and they hastily hung up.
While discussing how to handle everything, I decided that seeking professional assistance was the best course of action. Conveniently, my father was acquainted with a lawyer—an experienced man who had helped some of his colleagues before. When we explained the situation, he graciously promised to help.
I told the lawyer about the viral video circulating on social media and detailed the past events of our marriage.
He listened carefully, taking notes, his expression growing more serious with each new example.
When the lawyer reached out on our behalf, David was initially taken aback.
But over time, his attitude turned defiant.
“We’ll solve our marital issues ourselves,” he argued in a flat tone over the phone. “We don’t need a lawyer.”
Calmly, the lawyer replied, “I am acting upon Lisa’s request.
Any future communication regarding this matter should be directed to me. It’s up to my client, Lisa, to decide whether or not she wants to involve a lawyer.”
David was at a loss for words.
At first he refused to agree to a divorce, insisting that we could “work things out.” But when the lawyer mentioned mediation and the possibility of a court case, something shifted.
The word “court” clearly shook him.
He didn’t want a public record of everything he’d done. After a few more conversations, he reluctantly agreed to the divorce.
“I have no interest in the child and no intention of seeing them in the future,” he said coldly. “So I don’t see why I should pay child support.
As for property, I did nothing wrong.
I shouldn’t have to give up anything.”
His claims were irrational, but the lawyer remained composed, explaining the legal realities step by step. When David still seemed unconvinced, the lawyer said simply, “In that case, we’ll meet in court.”
My in-laws, who had been listening nearby, panicked at the idea.
Almost immediately, they changed their tune and pushed David to settle things quietly.
When the lawyer informed me of all this, I was struck by a wave of disbelief that I had ever married such a man.
Back at my parents’ house, I kept communicating with Sarah. When I told her about the recent developments, she laughed a little, a gleam of mischief in her eyes even over the phone.
“How about seizing your ex-husband’s retirement pay?” she suggested lightly.
“Garnishment is one way, right?”
Feeling a bit overwhelmed by her sharpness, I couldn’t help but smile.
It was the first time in a long while that I’d felt a small spark of amusement.
A short while later, the lawyer contacted me again. David, he said, wanted to apologize in person. Wanting a clean, satisfactory conclusion, I agreed—but only to a phone call under the lawyer’s supervision.
On the day of the scheduled call, I sat at my parents’ dining table with my mother and father on either side of me and the lawyer across from us, his notebook open.
The baby slept peacefully in a bassinet nearby.
From the other end of the line, David’s voice came through, tense and impatient.
“Finally you answered,” he said.
“Apologize now and I’ll forgive you. Just come back home and let’s be a couple again.
The house is a mess, I might lose my job, and everyone at work is looking at me coldly. All of this is your fault, so take responsibility.”
He continued to bombard me with accusations, barely pausing for breath.
I listened without saying anything, my heart strangely calm.
When he sneered, “See?
You can’t even reply properly. You’re truly a woman with no redeeming qualities,” I realized it was time.
“Just so you know,” I said evenly, “this conversation is being recorded. I’ll keep it as evidence.
Goodbye.”
On the other end, there was a stunned silence.
Then his voice rose, panicked.
“Wait, you recorded it? That’s not fair.
I was just joking. I’m sorry, okay?
I can’t live without you.
Let’s start over. We truly loved each other, right? I promise I’ll try harder from now on—”
I hung up.
With the recorded audio in hand, I turned to the lawyer.
“Can you use this as evidence if we need it?” I asked.
Shaking his head in disbelief, the lawyer said, “He truly is an incorrigible man.”
Having heard everything for themselves, they firmly decided to sever all ties with him.
His behavior filled them with more astonishment and disappointment than anger.
At some point, I realized that a small part of me was almost enjoying watching this drama from a safe distance, clinging to a little devilish side of myself I’d never met before. Maybe it was just the feeling of finally having the upper hand after so much helplessness.
The divorce proceedings concluded smoothly after that.
Both the property distribution and child support agreements went forward without a hitch once the legal realities were laid out in front of him. The turmoil that had consumed my life for months began to subside.
Because of the information Sarah had shared with her husband—the president of my ex-husband’s company—David was promptly disciplined.
The CEO, known for his family-oriented values, believed that an employee who couldn’t protect his own family couldn’t be trusted to represent the company’s name.
David eventually lost his job.
Without his salary, he couldn’t make the payments on their house. He had to move back into his parents’ small, aging home. With his reputation tarnished by the viral video, he struggled to find stable employment and scraped by on short-term part-time jobs.
Rumors spread about his parents, too.
According to Sarah’s friends in their neighborhood, they seemed to live in perpetual unease now, worried about what people were saying behind curtains and over backyard fences.
The cold judgment they faced from society, which was harsher than anything I’d imagined, made me think that, surprisingly, this kind of social ostracization might be more painful for them than any legal punishment.
With most matters settled and my health slowly recovering, my parents, my baby, and I visited Sarah’s home to express our gratitude. Her house was bright and warm, with family photos framed along the hallway and the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air.
Both Sarah and her husband seemed genuinely happy to see us, and they doted on my baby, making silly faces and cooing until he giggled.
After that day, Sarah and my mother became close friends, sharing recipes, stories, and cups of tea around the kitchen table. Similarly, Sarah’s husband and my father got along very well, talking about work, the local baseball team, and their children’s futures.
Our families grew closer, slowly weaving themselves together.
Furthermore, Sarah and her husband’s son was around my age—polite, kind, and a little shy at first.
To everyone’s surprise, over time our relationship began to develop in an unexpected direction. We bonded over walks through the neighborhood, coffee runs, and afternoons at the park with my baby.
A few years later, the idea that I might actually become a part of Sarah’s family for real was something no one could have predicted on that terrible day in the driveway, when my water broke and David drove away.
Life in America, I’ve learned, is full of surprises.
