When My Husband Gave His Mistress My Anniversary Gift

On my birthday, my eleven-year-old son used his dad's phone to post on Facebook, “Happy 15th anniversary to Mom and Dad. I love you both!” The video background showed a cozy bed covered in heart-shaped rose petals. My husband stood at the foot of the bed, handing a gift to his first love. I recognized the logo on the box—it's a luxury lingerie brand from abroad. They had blocked my phone number to avoid any interruptions to their romantic escapade. I blew out the birthday candles in front of me and sent a message: "Osman, I agree to the divorce."

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Seconds after sending the message, Osman called. Normally, when he received a text from me, he'd respond with a simple "Oh," "Mm," or "Okay." But now, surprisingly, he called. "Leona, what are you plotting this time? Aren't you tired of your scheming?" Suppressing the urge to explain, I calmly replied, "Tired, yes. That's why we should divorce so you won't have to deal with any more schemes." There was a brief silence before he replied disdainfully, "Karter is the future heir of the Young family; he can't be associated with a mother like you." Then, I heard a familiar voice on the phone: "Aunt Mina, can I call you mom in the future?" Like father, like son—both equally cold and arrogant.

In the past, when Karter refused to call me 'mom,' I'd hold him and cry until my heart ached. But now, I found it laughable. I relaxed my grip, my tone icy, "I don't want custody. Come back soon to sign the papers." Hanging up, I began packing my bags. For twelve years, I treated this as my home. Like a bird building a nest, I would slowly buy things that Osman and Karter liked to fill this space and fill my heart. Now, looking at the packed house, I gathered only a few clothes. I stuffed the miscellaneous items into storage boxes, asking the housekeeper to take them out and toss them. Decluttering is about this—discarding unimportant people and objects. Just as I was about to leave with my suitcase, the door opened—Osman and Karter had returned. They looked angry, their faces clouded with rage. Osman tossed his jacket aside and shouted, "You ruined our anniversary! Why do you have to be so manipulative?" I didn’t want to argue, only reminding him, "Sign the divorce papers on the table and make sure to finalize it at the registry next month." With that, I left without looking back.

Karter called after me, "Stop right there, take all these with you! I don't want this cheap, market stuff!" I glanced at the clothes he had thrown out. I had made these by hand; Karter's skin always got allergic reactions with the changing seasons. The doctor recommended handcrafted cotton clothes to reduce the chance of allergies. Since then, I'd make him two sets each month. If I couldn't finish them in time, I'd stay up all night, working until my