I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
My Cheating Husband Told Me I am Hideous And Ugly. I Gave him a Taste of His Own Medicine
I still remember the day vividly. His words cut deeper than any blade ever could. “You should be grateful I stay with you because nobody else could stand looking at that hideous face every day.” His cruel comment replayed in my mind like a broken record. At 67, I knew I wasn’t as young as I once was, but I had always believed in my inner and outer beauty. When I dressed up and put effort into my appearance, I still caught a look or two from strangers. His betrayal and harsh words completely shattered my self-esteem.
I was devastated. This was the man I had loved, the father of our four children, the person I had devoted my life to. How could he be so cruel? For days, I was in a daze, hurt and saddened by his words and actions. But then, a realization hit me. This man didn’t love me anymore. He thought that because we were old, he could do whatever he wanted without consequences.
“Okay, Mister Martin,” I thought to myself. “Let’s play it your way. I will make you regret this.”
The Perfect Facade
For the next three days, I played the role of the perfect wife. I served him his meals on time, cleaned the house meticulously, and even showed him extra respect. The satisfaction on his petty little face was almost unbearable. He thought he had won, that he had put me in my place. Little did he know, I was just setting the stage for what was to come.
Behind the scenes, I was planning my revenge. I spent hours researching and thinking of ways to hit him where it hurt the most. The first step was to gather evidence of his infidelity. With the help of a private investigator, I collected photographs, messages, and even videos of his escapades.
The Day of Reckoning
The very next day after my perfect facade, I executed my plan. It started like any other day. I made him breakfast, kissed him goodbye as he left for work, and waited patiently. When he came home, he was greeted by our children, all four of them. They had no idea what was about to happen, but I needed them there for what was to come next.
I gathered everyone in the living room and handed out envelopes containing the evidence of his infidelity. As they opened them, the room filled with gasps and shocked expressions. Martin’s face turned from confusion to horror as he realized what was happening.
For Illustrative purpose only
“Martin, you thought you could humiliate me and get away with it?” I said, my voice steady and strong. “You thought I would just sit back and let you walk all over me? You’re wrong. I’ve had enough.”
I looked at our children, their eyes wide with disbelief. “This man,” I continued, “has betrayed not only me but our entire family. He doesn’t deserve our love or respect.”
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