**A Wedding Anniversary Gift That Changed My Life Forever**
I studied my reflection in the mirror carefully. Today, I looked particularly lovely—neatly styled hair, flawless makeup, delicate jewellery chosen with taste. It had to be perfect—today, Paul and I were celebrating our wedding anniversary.
The party was in full swing. One by one, guests approached us, offering congratulations and gifts, laughter and music filling the air. I smiled, though deep down, something felt strange—like something important was about to happen.
When the time came for exchanging gifts, I took the microphone:
“Well then, darling—our turn at last! I do hope you’ll like my present,” I said, watching my husband closely.
The banquet hall doors swung open, and a group of men carried in a massive box draped in bright fabric. Paul rose from his seat, eyes wide with anticipation—but when the cloth dropped, his face froze in shock.
**A few hours earlier…**
I sat on our bed, rereading the message on my husband’s phone. Each word felt like a knife to the heart. *”I miss you terribly… counting down the hours until I see you again,”* his mistress had written.
But what truly stunned me wasn’t the infidelity. The woman he was cheating with was at least fifteen years older than him, plump, far from conventional beauty. And yet, he chose her.
Hearing footsteps, I quickly deleted the messages and set the phone down. Paul entered the room, whistling cheerfully—his mood bright after receiving a bonus at work, already dreaming of taking *his Natalie* to the seaside.
Noticing my expression, he frowned.
“Something wrong? You seem off.”
“Everything’s fine,” I replied calmly. “Just thinking about tonight. Speaking of which, I need money for the party.”
“Of course, no problem,” he grinned.
I didn’t even understand why I was so composed. In the past, his affairs had sent me into hysterics, threats of divorce. Now, I stayed silent. Something inside me had changed.
Paul stepped onto the balcony to send another love note. Meanwhile, I recalled how often I’d forgiven him. His mother always defended him:
“Men are like cats—if they’re warm and comfortable at home, they’ll always come back. Don’t make a scene, love. If you lose him, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”
His father agreed:
“Nothing to complain about! Your Paul’s a good man—works hard, brings money home. What more do you want?”
But I knew better. This *good man* cheated at every opportunity. And his father was no different—just better at hiding it.
I grew up believing infidelity was betrayal, that self-respect came first. But in Paul’s family, it was normal—*”Endure it; things will settle.”*
Friends told me to leave while I still could. But where would I go? With three children, no stable income? Moving back with my parents wasn’t an option—my brother’s family already lived there. And despite everything, I still loved Paul—for our school days together, his first whispered *I love you*, for our children.
Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he’d *get it out of his system* eventually.
But that message—so tender, so full of longing for another woman—cut deep. I knew then: *it had to end.*
I called an event planner. The owner, Leonard, listened quietly as I fought back tears.
“You deserve to live for yourself and your children,” he said softly. *”Why suffer for a man who doesn’t value you?”*
That’s when the plan took shape.
The anniversary party was held at a grand countryside estate. Guests filled the room—relatives, friends, colleagues. Even Natalie, Paul’s mistress, arrived, flashing a garish smile.
I stood apart, observing everything. I was immaculate—elegant black dress, high heels, fine jewellery.
When the moment came, I took the microphone again:
“My dearest Paul! Ten years ago, I chose you as my husband. In that time, I’ve learned perfect men only exist in fairy tales. But today, I thank you for teaching me one vital lesson—what a family should *never* look like.”
A gigantic cake was wheeled in. The room fell silent.
The cover was pulled away—and from the cake emerged three scantily clad women: a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead.
Paul’s jaw dropped. Natalie paled.
I stepped closer.
“Enjoy, darling. You always wanted more *variety*, didn’t you?”
Amid gasps and murmurs, I took my children’s hands and walked out. Leonard was already waiting by the door.
The divorce was brutal. Paul raged, accused me of betrayal. But the court granted it without debate.
I rented a flat, found work. Leonard helped me rebuild. He became my support, then my husband—and a real father to my children.
Years later, I’ve never once regretted my choice.
Life begins where patience ends. No one has the right to trample on your worth.
