The day after I caught my husband cheating with his co-worker, he packed his things with a smirk and snarled,
“I’m taking the dog — you’ve got the kid.”
His mother, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, cackled and added,
“Well, at least the dog is trained.”
That was the moment something inside me snapped.
So I filed for divorce. And I didn’t just file — I went for full custody of our 7-year-old son, Mark.
The day of the hearing, we were all seated in the courtroom — my husband looking far too confident with his expensive lawyer, his mother wearing widow-black like she was the victim. I sat beside Mark, holding his tiny hand while the judge went over paperwork.
That’s when Mark suddenly raised his hand.
The entire courtroom paused.
“Yes, young man?” the judge said gently.
Mark stood up and swallowed hard. “Can… can I read what Dad sent me yesterday?”
My husband’s face drained of color. His lawyer leaned in and hissed something urgent. The judge banged his gavel. “Order in the court. If the child has evidence, I’ll allow it.”
Mark pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket — he had written down the message just so he wouldn’t forget.
In a clear, shaky voice, he read:
“Hey buddy. Just tell the judge you want to stay with Mom for now so she gets comfortable. I only want the dog anyway. Once I’m done traveling with Cindy, I’ll come back for you. Pretend you miss her and get her to drop the custody thing. Be a smart boy and I’ll buy you that PlayStation.”