For years, I believed my husband’s basement was his private retreat. He called it his “escape”—until I realized who he was escaping with.
The clues were subtle at first—a whiff of unfamiliar perfume, sudden “errands” at odd hours. Then came the night I heard giggling from below while he was supposedly at the store. My blood ran cold.
I waited until he left again and tiptoed downstairs. That’s when I heard her—mocking me, laughing at how oblivious I was. The betrayal cut deep, but anger took over.
The next day, I bought a box of live rats. That night, while they were cozy in their love nest, I set the rodents loose and locked the door. The screams were satisfying.
When my husband finally emerged, wild-eyed and sweating, I handed him divorce papers without a word. Now, my home is mine—no more lies, no more secrets. Just freedom.
