A Necessary Divorce: It's Not a Joke

As soon as my husband sat at the dining table, he couldn't stop himself from talking.

The humiliations of my school days had become his favorite entertainment, served up to his drinking buddies like appetizers.

"Back then, she got her clothes torn off in the bathroom, beaten so badly she crawled on the ground like a dog, too terrified to make a sound. If it weren’t for my kindness—"

That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told him I wanted a divorce.

He laughed it off, utterly unbothered. "Seriously? It’s just a joke! That was ages ago. You’re way too uptight—it’s just for a laugh, right?"

For a laugh? Was I the only one with a past? Did he think he was untouchable? Maybe I should tell a few embarrassing stories about his precious childhood sweetheart.

Fine. If it’s all about “fun,” I hoped his sweetheart found it equally hilarious when her turn came.

My husband, Zayn Garner, seemed to think our home was an open bar for his loud, obnoxious friends.

Every other day, they showed up, filling the house with lingering stares that left my skin crawling.

This time, I decided to put my foot down. “How about you take them out tonight? Go anywhere, spend as much as you want. I just—”

I didn’t even finish before Zayn’s expression soured. “What now? They’re just here to chat. Why do you always have to make things awkward? If I take them out, they’ll think we’re looking down on them or have some grudge.”

I stared at him, incredulous. “Chat? Is that what you call it? Bringing up my most humiliating moments, twisting them into jokes, and making everyone laugh at my expense? Have you ever once thought about how I feel?”

Before Zayn could answer, his mother, Lucy piped up from the kitchen, where she was chopping up vegetables. “Oh, stop being so dramatic! Can’t you take a joke? You’re lucky we don’t call you out for being so spineless!”

Her words hit me like a slap. My chest tightened, anger surging like a wave I couldn’t hold back. My mother-in-law, the jokester, was eager to humiliate me too.

Seeing how I was rooted in place and stunned into silence, Zayn led me into the kitchen. “Start cooking already. My friends will be here soon. We’ll deal with this later.”

I held back my rage and turned to the cutting board. Zayn’s laughter and rowdy banter filtered in from the other room, every word striking a nerve. My focus slipped, and the knife nicked my finger.

“Ouch!”

Drops of blood fell onto the chopping board. I frowned at the sting, only to notice the people at the dining table staring at me.

One man with a booming voice chuckled. “Zayn, your wife’s so sensitive! A little cut, and she’s already crying out? Bet she keeps you busy, huh?”

I froze as Zayn laughed along and effortlessly steered the conversation toward his favorite topic, mocking me.

“Ahh,