Three days before our Maldives anniversary trip, I collapsed while chopping vegetables. A stroke. Half my face paralyzed, speech slurred—everything changed in an instant.
Lying in the hospital, I clung to one hope: recovery and someday, that trip.
On day three, Jeff called. “We’ll cancel,” I said.
He hesitated. “I gave it to my brother. We’re at the airport.”
I couldn’t cry. My face wouldn’t let me. But inside, I shattered.
Twenty-five years of support—through his layoffs, failures, and fears—and he chose a vacation over me.
So I called Ava, my brilliant niece. “I need you,” I said.
She didn’t ask why. Just said, “Let’s burn it all down.”
While I fought to regain speech and movement, Ava uncovered Jeff’s secret: he went to the Maldives with his secretary—Mia. The same woman who cheated with Ava’s ex.
When Jeff returned, tan and smug, I smiled (lopsided) and let him talk. Then Ava and I launched our plan.
Turns out, much of what Jeff thought was “ours” was legally mine. We hired a powerhouse lawyer, locked down assets, and served him papers—divorce, with full evidence of his affair.
He begged. Cried. I gave him one final gift: a non-refundable Maldives trip. Same room. Next month. Hurricane season.
I never made it to the Maldives. Jeff ruined it.
Instead, I’m in Greece. Healing. Laughing. Watching Ava flirt with waiters.
“To new beginnings,” she toasts.
“And better endings,” I say.
Because sometimes, freedom is the best revenge. And the sea? It’s never looked bluer.
Leave a Reply