I worked long hours, saved every penny, and dreamed of a real home—a place for my kids to run free. Jack, my husband, was supposed to handle things at home, but instead, he spent his days gaming while I did everything—work, clean, and even paid for a nanny.
Eventually, I bought the house. It wasn’t huge, but it was mine. My victory. Jack barely reacted.
Then came the shock: Jack’s parents showed up uninvited at the housewarming—and announced they were moving in. Apparently, it was “tradition” in his family. His mom claimed the master bedroom, his dad criticized the place, and Jack? He just shrugged. “It’s the rules,” he said.
That night, I made a choice.
By morning, I had the locks changed and filed for divorce. Jack woke up to me packing his things. He thought I was joking—until he showed up later with his parents and found himself locked out.
They called me, yelling. I stayed calm. “This is my house. I paid for it. And I’m done being treated like a doormat.”
I blocked their numbers. Filed the papers. And that night, I slept peacefully for the first time in years—no husband, no freeloaders, just me and my freedom.
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