Divorce Is a Stretch, Don't You Think?

During the third year of our marriage, my husband's ex—whom he dated for eight years—suddenly shares a photo of a ten-million-dollar marital home on her social media. It's captioned, "I've finally gotten a mansion! Who's the best at dating? I am!"

I gape at the image—I see my husband swiping his card at the real estate sales office in a corner of the photo. I leave a question mark in the comments.

In the next second, my husband calls me to tell me off. "I'm just making good on a promise I made her when we were dating—to buy her a marital home. Why did you have to go insult her like that? Are you evil enough to turn me into a man who goes back on his word?"

That evening, his ex shares another photo of a million-dollar renovation bill.

I know it's a gift from my husband to appease her, but I don't care anymore…

When Cameron Jensen came home, I was taking paroxetine for depression.

Since Rowena Sherman came into the picture, my marriage with Cameron had become suffocating, and it had led me into moderate depression.

Cameron came over, snatched my pills, and threw them in the trash. "You're popping pills every time I get home. Can't you cut the pathetic act?"

He pulled out a bouquet and tossed it at my feet. "Rowena got this for you. I asked her how I should punish you so she'd stop being mad, but she's too kind. She said she'll let it slide as long as you apologize."

I stared at the half-dead bouquet on the table. I sniffed, and the stench of rotting stems hit me.

Three days ago, Rowena had posted this same bouquet online with the caption, "Fresh flowers and a man to make for a perfect afternoon!"

Those painful memories came rushing back. I grabbed a paring knife to peel an apple, hoping to take my mind off things. "I don't want anything from her. It's gross."

Cameron scowled, sounding frustrated. "What's with the stuck-up attitude? She already sent you a gift. Is it really that hard to apologize?"

I didn't budge.

"Stop being ungrateful. You're at fault, and Rowena's already made an effort to make peace!" Cameron lost his patience and kicked the dining table.

The force was enough to flip it over, and I crashed to the ground with it. Just my luck, the paring knife stabbed right into my palm.

Blood came rushing out of my right hand, soaking through my white T-shirt in no time. The pain was so bad, it had me shaking all over.

Cameron flew into a panic. "I'll take you to the hospital."

I kept quiet and followed him down to the garage. The moment I got into the car, I noticed the passenger seat was different—now sporting a brand-new pink cat design.

His car used to have an all-black interior. Clearly, someone had made the change in the last few days.

"I dated her for