Divorced the Man I Loved For Fourteen Years

On the fourteenth anniversary of our marriage, my husband didn't come home all night.

I received flirtatious photos sent by his new girlfriend.

I calmly asked him for a divorce, but he threatened me with guardianship of the children.

His girlfriend cried, "Steve only helped me because he pitied me. Don't misunderstand him."

My heart was broken. Determined to leave, I was met with Steve Sanchez's sarcasm.

"You're homeless. How can you live without my support?" he said.

I didn't see him again until a few days later.

[Let's get a divorce.]

I messaged Steve, but he ignored me.

Even so, I had made up my mind and started preparing for the divorce.

A week later, Steve came back from a business trip.

He reeked of alcohol and had a strong mix of perfume on him.

Our children were already asleep while I was in the living room, browsing job sites.

I looked up and spoke indifferently. "You're back. Have you thought about the divorce?"

He laughed as if hearing a joke. "Are you kidding me? You must be crazy to divorce me."

I calmly replied, "I'm not joking, and I'm perfectly sane."

Steve took off his coat and pulled off his tie, smirking mockingly. "A homeless person like you can't survive without me. You've been a full-time housewife for seven years with no income. Even if we divorce, you won't get guardianship of the kids. Are you prepared to live in the street and scavenge for food?"

His words were insulting, shattering the little strength I had left.

But my resolve was firm.

I replied, "Whether I sleep under a bridge or scavenge for food, it's none of your business. I won't fight for guardianship. I just want a peaceful divorce. After that, whether I live or die has nothing to do with you."

Drunk people were easily angered.

Steve pulled out his belt and, in a sudden rage, charged at me.

I never expected him to resort to violence. He had never shown this side before.

Still, I gritted my teeth and stared at him.

He swung the belt but missed, perhaps because he was too drunk.

The belt grazed my clothes and hit the leg of the sofa.

Then he collapsed on the sofa, falling into a drunken sleep.

The air conditioner was set low, and he didn't have a shirt on since he had taken it off earlier.

I hesitated, thinking that while a divorce was imminent, I didn't want him to freeze to death.

Just then, my phone rang.

It was another text from that same number.

It was a photo showing a scantily dressed lady. Her raised left wrist was adorned with a flashy Vacheron Constantin watch.

There was another hand of a man, who was wearing a dark grey shirt.

His identity was plain to see.

That shirt was now discarded at the living room entrance.

The shirt's owner had just tried to hit me with a belt and told me I would scavenge for food without him.

I stood up, shut down my laptop, and went to my room.

Steve deserved to freeze.

The next morning, I took the twins to school.

Steve was no longer in the living room.

Wherever he went, I didn't care anymore.

It only disgusted me.

The twins, now six years old, had just started first grade.

Sitting in the family driver's car, my daughter suddenly asked, "Mom, you haven't smiled in a long time. Are you unhappy?"

I forced a smile, "No, sweetheart, don't worry."

At the school gate, my son ran ahead while my daughter stopped and looked at me worriedly. "Mom, cartoons say if you're unhappy, you should stay away from what makes you sad."

Her words made me sad, and I mumbled, "I know, sweetheart. Now go to school."

My daughter's words must have been relayed to Steve by the driver.

A few days later, Steve forbade me from taking the twins to school, claiming I needed to calm down due to my poor mental state.

The twins were sent to the house of Steve's parents and looked after by the housekeeper.

I was practically under house arrest, unable to go anywhere.

I didn't protest or make a scene, just packing my belongings.

I told Steve, "If you don't agree to the divorce, I'll file for it."

Steve, feeling his authority challenged, smashed a priceless vase and roared at me, "Go ahead! Let's see whose side the judge takes!"

The Sanchez family was wealthy and influential, while I was all alone.

The outcome seemed obvious.

"No matter how rich you are, the judge still follows the law," I said.

Steve clenched his fists, veins bulging, "Nancy Foster, don't push your luck. Or there will be consequences."

I stood up, still calm. "Fine, either you agree to the divorce, or you kill me."