For most of our marriage, Jason and I shared a bed. I’d fall asleep to the sound of him typing, and some mornings we’d wake up tangled, laughing. We weren’t perfect, but we were real—present.
So when he asked to sleep in the guest room, blaming my snoring, I thought he was joking. But that night, he moved in with a bag already packed.
I tried everything—teas, sleep apps, nasal strips—but he stayed in the other room. Soon, he moved all his stuff, locked the door, and started showering there. It wasn’t about sleep anymore.
One night, I found his phone on our nightstand. A message lit up:
“Can you call me when she’s asleep? – Lana.”
I followed the light down the hall and found him whispering at his laptop:
“She has no clue. I told you, it’s the snoring.”
I didn’t cry. I got proof.
He wasn’t cheating—at least not romantically. Lana was a self-proclaimed “business mentor” he’d paid $19,000 to. She sold him dreams of online riches. This wasn’t the first time, either. There had been failed “liquid gold” serums before.
He had lied, locked me out, and drained our savings. Not to betray me with another woman—but with a fantasy.
When I confronted him, he just said, “You don’t understand high-level strategy.”
That was it. The moment I realized I wasn’t just locked out of our room—I was locked out of his life.
Two weeks later, I filed for divorce.
Lana vanished. No refund. No empire. He texted later:
“New mentor. This one’s different.”
I blocked him.
Now the guest room is mine. I painted it sage green, filled it with books and candles. I snore, and no one moves away. No secrets behind closed doors.
At a bookstore recently, a man asked about a poetry book I held. We talked—no pressure, just presence.
Maybe that book didn’t save me. But maybe peace did.
I sleep alone now. Door open. Phone unplugged. Dreams, finally free.