Fourteen years of marriage. Two kids. A shared life I thought was solid. It’s funny how quickly everything can crumble.
That moment came when Stan walked through the door one evening—only he wasn’t alone.
The woman beside him was tall, glamorous, with a smug expression that made my stomach churn. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she strutted into my home like she owned the place.
“Well, darling,” she said, her lips curling into a smirk as she looked me up and down. “You weren’t exaggerating. She really let herself go. Such a shame—decent bone structure, though.”
I froze, the wooden spoon still in my hand. Did she really just say that?
“Excuse me?”
Stan sighed, rubbing his temples like I was the problem. “Lauren, I want a divorce.”
The room tilted. “A divorce? What about our kids? What about our life?”
“You’ll manage,” he said with a shrug, already dismissing me. “I’ll send money.” Then, as if the situation wasn’t insulting enough, he added, “Oh, and you can sleep on the couch or go to your sister’s. Miranda’s staying over.”
That night, I packed. I took my kids and left.
The divorce was quick. He sold our house, moved in with Miranda, and completely vanished from our lives. At first, he sent child support, but within a year, even that stopped. He didn’t call. He didn’t visit. My kids—his kids—became strangers to him.
For more than two years, I worked hard to rebuild. We downsized, made do with what we had, and somehow, we found happiness in our new life. My kids thrived, despite their father’s absence. And me? I grew stronger.
Then, one afternoon, everything came full circle.
I was walking home from the store, arms full of groceries, when I saw them. Stan and Miranda.
At first, my heart stopped. But as I got closer, I realized something was… different.
Stan wasn’t the confident, arrogant man who had walked out on us. He looked exhausted. He had gained weight, his hairline had receded dramatically, and his once-pristine dress shirt was stained. He was pushing an old shopping cart with a broken wheel, while Miranda—still glamorous, still beautiful—stood next to him, shouting.
*”I didn’t sign up for this, Stan! We were supposed to have a *better* life! Not—this!”* She gestured at him, disgust written all over her face.
I slowed my steps, watching the scene unfold like a front-row audience member at a play I had been waiting to see.
“Miranda, please,” Stan muttered, rubbing his forehead. “It’s just temporary. I’ll find another job soon—”
*”You’ve been saying that for a *year!“ she screeched. “I left my husband for you! I had a good life! And now we’re barely scraping by!”
I blinked. Oh.
So that’s what happened.
Stan had lost his job. Likely burned through his money trying to keep up with Miranda’s expensive tastes. And when the funds dried up? So did her patience.
The irony was delicious.
I pulled out my phone and immediately called my mom.
“Mom, you won’t believe this,” I said, barely holding back a laugh.
She picked up on the first ring. “What is it?”
“I just ran into Stan and his mistress. And, Mom? Karma truly does exist.”
She let out a delighted gasp. “Tell me everything!“
So I did. As I walked past them—head high, shoulders back, thriving—I recounted the scene to my mother, not bothering to lower my voice.
I even made sure to make eye contact with Stan as I passed.
His face paled. He knew. He knew that I had survived, that I had moved on. And that he had destroyed his own life.
And in that moment, I realized something.
I didn’t need revenge.
Watching karma do the work for me was perfectly satisfying.