I Thought My Marriage Was Thriving Until My Friend Posed a Devastating Question

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 2 minViews 3

I thought my marriage was finally on steady ground, until my best mate dropped the question that ripped the veil away.

I tied the knot at twenty, swept up in a love that felt like a fairytale. Wed been dating for four years before we said I do, and everything wed faced together seemed to bind us tighter.

For more than six years weve lived under the same roof in a modest terraced house in Manchester. I trust James completely, and I trust myself. Hes gentle, caring, always quick to pitch in with the chores. He isnt the brawniest or the most daring bloke, and hes no heartthrob, but his soul is warm as a summer afternoon, overflowing with optimism and a belief in goodness that fuels me when life turns bleak.

The trouble is, he cant make a decision to save his life. He clings to his comfort zone like a safety blanket and refuses to move forward. Shyness sits on his shoulders like a heavy coat, and after six years together, nothing has shifted.

He neglects his health, terrified by any hint of change. James is nearly ten years older than meIm twentysix, eager for everything the world offers. Ive landed a brilliant job in a tech startup, bought my own VW Golf, and were chipping away at the mortgage on our home, paying it off pound by pound. Then, out of the blue, Sarah asked, What on earth do you even need him for?

That question cracked the foundation of my personal happiness. Now I sit on the edge of the kitchen table, heart pounding, and wonder: What am I really holding onto?

— Not Again With the Licking! Max, Get Him Away! Anna glared in exasperation at Timmy, the hapless pup bouncing around her feet. How did they end up with a dog like him? They’d spent ages researching, weighing up breeds, even seeking expert advice. They understood the responsibility—finally settling on a German Shepherd: loyal friend, vigilant guard, steadfast protector, sort of like a three-in-one shampoo. Only their “protector” needed rescuing from the neighbour’s cats… “He’s just a pup! Give him time—he’ll grow up, you’ll see.” “Yeah, I’m counting the days for this beast to grow into his paws. Do you realise he eats more than we do? How will we feed him? And for goodness’ sake, don’t stomp about like a lumberjack—you’ll wake the baby!” Anna grumbled as she collected the shoes Timmy had scattered. They lived on Churchill Avenue, in a ground-floor flat of one those grand, old red-brick buildings with windows almost at street level. The location was perfect but for one thing: the windows faced a shadowy cul-de-sac at the back, a haunt for shady sorts in the evenings, the scene of more than a few brawls. Anna spent her days at home with newborn Katie while Max was off working at the National Gallery or trawling through antique markets and second-hand bookstalls in his free time. With a curator’s keen eye, he unearthed hidden gems: rare art, collectible china, and Edwardian silver—all amassing quietly in their flat. The growing collection, and her days alone with a baby in a neighbourhood notorious for break-ins, made Anna anxious. “Anna, when do you think is best to walk Timmy? Now or after lunch?” “I don’t know, and honestly, that’s your dog business, not mine!” The word “walkies” sent Timmy zooming down the hall—so fast he nearly skidded into the wall—before snatching his lead and bouncing up, nose to ceiling. What a horse, not a dog! He loved everyone, greeted guests with a wag and brought anyone who’d let him his ball—while the only thing he protected was his reputation as the friendliest neighbour on the block. He wouldn’t even chase the local cats. Instead, he tried to make friends with them—resulting in a paw swipe across his nose more than once. The block’s cats were tough—maybe they should’ve got one of those for protection! With Max heading off to Henley-on-Thames for the Levitan Festival tomorrow, Anna faced another day alone: stuck guarding china and walking this big-eared dunce. Just what every mum needs… At dawn, Max tried to leave quietly, but Anna still caught the sound of the kettle, the jingle of the lead, his hushing Timmy from barking or thumping about. She drifted back to sleep until Katie’s fussing woke her, greeted by the same ordinary, peaceful day. Friends often sighed: “Anna, you married so young—torn between husband and daughter, stuck in the kitchen. Don’t you get bored?” But Anna found charm in the everyday, even if life wasn’t perfect. She coped with cramped space, tight budgets, and Max’s collectors’ passion burning through every spare penny—now leaving her with this big-eared companion. But Anna knew: you have to love people, foibles and all. No one promised perfection. She sat in the nursery feeding Katie, who kept dozing off mid-feed. When the doorbell rang, Anna didn’t answer. She wasn’t expecting anyone; no friend would trek across town without a call first. She treasured these quiet mornings, with only the old grandfather clock ticking and the muted city hum slipping in through the window: buses rumbling, street-sweepers shuffling, children’s voices in the distance… But where was Timmy? Odd; he’d been out of sight for a while now. His ears were perfect, really—perky and alert. Only his character was dopey. Now here they were: living with him, feeding him, walking him—and for what use? They’d have been better off with a spaniel. Anna watched her content daughter drift to sleep. Oh, what a precious girl! “My little treasure,” Anna whispered, tucking her in. “Grow up strong—what more could we wish for?” Just then, a strange noise came from the sitting room—a sharp crack or a squeak. Anna froze and listened. The sound came again. She crept out silently, heart pounding. Timmy’s back was towards her, half-hidden behind the curtain dividing the hallway from the lounge. His whole body was tense, crouched low, ears up, watching intently into the room. Anna followed his gaze and felt a chill: halfway through the window, wedged in the open pane, was the upper half of a man. A shaven, menacing head, arms and shoulders already inside as he strained to squeeze the rest of his gaunt frame through. Anna couldn’t believe it—this couldn’t be happening! What now? Scream? He was almost inside, just one more push and— The thief barely had time to react—a black shadow shot to the window. Anna realised it was Timmy. With a leap, he clamped his jaws at the man’s neck! The burglar let out a hoarse, terrified yell, his eyes bulging as he froze in panic. Anna ran for help, calling the neighbours. Soon the hallway was packed, police on their way, and Anna felt a surge of relief—she hadn’t been alone after all. Her main worry: what if Timmy hurt the man? But there he was, gripping the intruder’s collar firmly but carefully. Not a drop of blood—only tightening his hold if the man struggled, easing off when he stilled. Anna watched, amazed: their ball-chasing clown acted like a trained professional. Timmy hadn’t barked, hadn’t alerted the thief to his presence. Instead, he’d staged an ambush, letting the man get stuck before pouncing and holding him in a perfect guard’s grip—enough to subdue, not enough to harm. As if he understood the motto: our job’s to detain—justice takes care of the rest. Even the veteran constables on the scene laughed; they’d never seen a burglar so happy to be taken in. Shaken and overjoyed to be freed from Timmy’s teeth, the crook surrendered gratefully. As for Timmy, he was so proud of his “catch” that he wouldn’t let go until the police dog handler arrived. At the officer’s command, Timmy released—then sat beside the window, gazing up, awaiting further orders as if asking, “What’s next, boss?” “You’ve struck gold with this dog,” the officer said, ruffling Timmy’s ears. “I wish we had him back at the station.” Max returned late that night, froze stunned in the doorway. There was Timmy sprawled on the forbidden sofa, legs in the air, Anna scratching his belly, cooing and fussing like he was the world’s greatest hero: “My joy, my darling, my precious boy, grow big and strong for Mummy and Daddy. I’ve been so unfair—please forgive me…” I heard this tale from the art historian himself, years ago, at a Levitan Festival. No doubt Timmy would’ve told it even better—how he stalked, how he apprehended, how he turned the thief over to the authorities. The memory lives on, and at last, I felt compelled to pass it on to you.

02

The Road to Humanity Max sat behind the wheel of his brand-new car—the very one he had dreamed about for the past two years. After saving every penny and denying himself small pleasures, he finally relished this long-awaited moment. The dashboard glowed softly in the dusk, casting a warm, inviting light, and the steering wheel seemed to beckon for his touch, ready to respond to his every move. He ran his hand along the cool, smooth leather, unable to hide a smile. This wasn’t just a car—this was the embodiment of his hard work and determination. He turned on the radio, and the cabin instantly filled with a light, rhythmic tune. He found himself singing along, his fingers drumming the dashboard to the beat. In that moment, Max felt truly happy. He was headed home, where his friends were already waiting to celebrate his long-awaited purchase. He imagined telling them how he’d scrimped and saved, how he’d worked weekends after his regular job, how he’d skipped out on café visits and new clothes. But right now, none of that seemed to matter. Now, he just wanted to savour the drive and the freedom it represented—his dream finally realised. The road wound through a quiet suburban neighbourhood. Rows of houses glowed with warm lights, promising comfort and peace. Lamp posts cast soft patterns along the pavement, painting shifting shadows across the tarmac. A few late walkers hurried home, bundled in coats and scarves against the evening chill. Max slowed as he approached an intersection, carefully watching the road. Suddenly—a child darted out onto the street, seemingly from nowhere. Max didn’t have time to think. His instincts kicked in as he slammed the brakes. The car fishtailed, tyres screeching across the tarmac, leaving dark skid marks. Seconds stretched into eternity, but at last the car shuddered to a halt—just inches from the boy. Max’s heart hammered so wildly he thought it might burst from his chest. Cold sweat stung his eyes, and a ringing in his ears drowned out the rest of the world. He took a deep breath, struggling to still his trembling hands, and only then realised just how narrowly disaster had been averted. One moment more, and it could have ended in tragedy. He had almost hit a child… For several moments, Max sat motionless, trying to calm his racing pulse. His hands shook as he clenched them into fists to collect himself. Over and over, he thought: “It’s okay. It’s okay.” But a wave of hot, searing anger rose within him, demanding an outlet. He threw open the door and jumped out, his knees weak. He strode towards the boy, who stood nearby, hunched over and head bowed. Max seized him by the shoulders, not realising his grip was too tight. “What on earth are you doing?!” he hissed, keeping his voice low, but unable to hide his panic. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? You know there are easier ways!” The boy didn’t try to break free. He only bowed his head lower and mumbled, almost inaudibly, “I didn’t mean to… I just…” “Just what?!” Max tightened his grip but instantly eased when the boy flinched. “Maybe you don’t care about yourself, but what about your mother? How do you think she’d feel burying her son? I almost couldn’t stop in time!” Max’s voice was laced not just with anger, but with fear—the same fear that had gripped him for those endless seconds. He understood now how close he had come to disaster. The realisation turned his anger to something else entirely. The boy let out a sob, tears glistening in his eyes. He looked up at Max, and in that gaze was such confusion and despair that Max’s anger began to ebb. “Please help…,” the boy whispered, his voice shaking. “My brother fell ill and nobody stopped. I had to run into the road.” Max froze. The fury that had raged within a moment before vanished, leaving only confusion and a strange emptiness. He looked at the boy—thin, tear-streaked, lips trembling—and suddenly saw not a troublemaker, but a frightened child, desperate to save his brother. “Your brother’s ill?” Max repeated, trying to keep his voice steady despite the rising anxiety. He searched the child’s face for any sign of deception but saw only genuine fear. “Where is he?” “There,” the boy pointed towards a small park across the road, his hand shaking. “We were just playing and suddenly he collapsed. He says it hurts a lot!” Max didn’t pause to worry about leaving his new car unattended. He quickly slammed the door, clicked the fob, and hurried after the boy. His thoughts spiraled: “What if it’s serious? What if the child needs urgent help?” The urgency pressed him on. They crossed the street, Max picking up the pace to keep up with the boy, who glanced back anxiously to make sure the adult was following. “Where are your parents?” Max asked, trying to sound calm, though his voice still wavered. “It’s not exactly safe to be out here alone.” “Mum and Dad are at work—they always are, they have to earn money,” answered the boy, Serge, as he hurried on. “Our gran is supposed to watch us, but she’s poorly. Anyway, we’re not babies; we can play by ourselves.” Max nodded, something tightening in his chest. He knew what it was to struggle and save, but the idea of kids alone unsettled him. “You take care of each other?” he prompted, then added gently, “And what’s your name?” “I’m Serge,” the boy replied, glancing back with a trace of pride despite the tears. “Gran keeps an eye on us, but we mostly manage on our own.” They reached the park, Serge confidently leading Max down a narrow path deeper in. The growing anxiety nagged at Max with every step. Ahead, beneath a spreading tree, a small figure lay curled on the grass. Serge rushed over, voice trembling as he called, “Dima, are you okay?” He touched his brother’s shoulder with a gentleness that made Max’s heart ache. Max knelt at the bench, not caring as dew dampened his trousers. All his attention was on the child—about six, pale and clutching his belly. “Where does it hurt?” Max asked, making his voice as soft as possible. “My tummy… it really hurts…” whispered Dima, barely audible. Max’s heart clenched. He wasn’t a doctor and didn’t know what was wrong—but it was clearly serious. Dima needed more than a comforting word. An ambulance would take ages to arrive… “All right, let’s get you to hospital,” Max said, steady and calm. He gently scooped Dima into his arms—Dima whimpered, but didn’t resist. “Serge, can you call your parents?” Max asked as they walked. “I left the phone at home,” Serge admitted, looking down anxiously. “But my aunt works at the hospital—she can call Mum!” “Thank goodness for that,” said Max, trying not to sound too relieved. He got Dima into the car, gently strapped him in, and Serge climbed in beside his brother, squeezing Dima’s hand. The younger boy relaxed a little at his brother’s touch. Max started the engine, turned up the heating, and set off for the hospital, stealing anxious glances in the rearview mirror. Dima’s face was still drawn, but Serge murmured reassurance and kept stroking his hand. To relieve the anxiety, Max put on the radio—a calm instrumental, just quiet enough to calm rather than distract. “How are you holding up, Dima?” Max called, not turning around. “We’re nearly there.” “Okay…” murmured Dima—his voice was still thin, but a little steadier. “Good lad. We’ll be there soon.” As the hospital lights appeared, Max praised Serge, “You were so brave, helping your brother. But let’s agree—don’t ever run out into the street again. Today, you nearly got yourself killed, and imagine what your brother would have done without you.” Serge nodded, tears springing up again—not from fear, but understanding how close he’d come to disaster. “All right, I won’t,” he whispered. Max smiled, resting a reassuring hand on Serge’s shoulder. “That’s good. Now let’s look after Dima.” At the hospital, Max helped carry Dima to admissions, where a nurse quickly assessed him and whisked him away. Serge stayed on the hard bench, white-knuckled and staring ahead. Max paced nearby, constantly glancing at the doors. A half-hour later, a breathless woman burst in—Serge’s mother, panic in her eyes. Serge flung himself into her arms, sobbing. Max explained what happened, omitting the details of just how close the call was. “Thank you,” the mother said, shaking Max’s hand. “Not many people would have stopped. Most just look the other way these days…” “It’s all right. I just hope Dima’s okay.” She smiled through her tears, then hurried to speak with the doctor as relief spread across her face. Max slipped out quietly into the cool evening, the sense of nervous energy finally ebbing away, replaced by a deep calm. Leaning on his car, he started to text his friend to say the party was postponed—but stopped. Instead, he stared up at the starlit sky, the brisk air clearing his mind. Today, he’d managed to help. And though it happened accidentally—he’d simply driven home, noticed a boy in the street, and couldn’t just pass by—the impact was greater than he ever could have planned. Maybe tomorrow, someone would help him… The thought comforted him. He breathed in, started the car, and set off towards home, the warmth growing inside him. Even though his celebration was postponed, he felt no disappointment. This day mattered not because he’d bought a new car or planned a night with friends, but because he’d made a difference. That feeling was worth more than any party. He watched the city lights, the passersby, the shop windows—understanding that life goes on, and there’s always room for small but meaningful acts of kindness.

02

A Lesson for a Wife Fed Up! – Tom flung his spoon across the table, glaring at his wife with frustration. Can you even call this edible? Soggy pasta that’s basically mush, and a couple of barely cooked sausages! What did you do all day? Stuck to your phone as usual? How can you say that? – Sarah protested dramatically, quickly hiding the very device in question. I was chasing after Charlie all day! He’s such a handful! Just like his father, she added, watching her husband’s temper rise. It’s hard for me, you know? Ever since I gave birth, nothing’s been easy… Charlie’s two and a half now, Tom said, trying to stay calm. He should be in nursery by now, and you could go back to work. Things would get easier! Why should I put my son in some germ-ridden daycare? Sarah shot back. Do you want us always in hospital? You do realise a child needs to be occupied and properly stimulated, don’t you? We do plenty! Charlie’s doing great for his age, the paediatrician said so! Sarah stood her ground. This argument had come up before; she dreaded Tom actually sending Charlie off to nursery. She wasn’t keen on returning to work—she’d grown used to half-days spent browsing the internet and didn’t want to give it up! And who do we have to thank for Charlie’s progress? Tom lost his patience, slamming his fist on the table so the plates rattled. My mum! She’s the one who comes over and plays with Charlie. You’re either napping or on your phone! Couldn’t you tidy up or make a decent meal for once? Why should I come home from work to THIS? Tom looked at the meal in disgust. I’m not your cook! Or your cleaner! I’m your wife! And as my husband, you should be providing me a comfortable life! Sarah truly believed what she said. After countless daytime talk shows and hours spent on “mums’” forums, she’d changed her mind about what it meant to be a wife. She’d once thought she should care for her husband, do housework, and raise children, but now she saw that as the role of a servant, not a wife. She valued herself too highly for that. So that’s how it is? Tom ground out, after listening to her fiery speech. I’m out working all hours so you can keep the sofa warm? That it? I’m working on self-improvement, Sarah retorted proudly. You’ll be bragging to your mates about how clever your wife is soon enough. I can hold my own in any conversation! Can you? What’s the last book you read? What’s something new you’ve learned? Tom got up, looming over her. Well? Go on, say something! Scrolling through social media doesn’t count as intellectual growth. And those shouty talk shows—what use are they? Be honest: are you going to look after your home and our child or not? No! Like I said, I’m not a maid… Sarah burst out with a torrent of complaints: Tom didn’t earn enough, acted like a domestic tyrant, was never around… Tom listened in silence, then responded with a single word: Divorce. What? Sarah gasped, midway through a new rant. Divorce, Tom repeated coolly. I’ll find a woman who’ll be a good wife and mother to Charlie. He spends more time with his grandmas than with you anyway. You’re not a mother—you don’t deserve that title. And you’re certainly not a wife. Sarah was thrown for a minute, but then dismissed him. He was bluffing—he wouldn’t really divorce her! Surely the court would let Charlie stay with his mum—everyone knows kids belong with their mothers, right? Tom changed. He barely spoke to her. Soon, Charlie and his grandma went to the seaside for a couple of weeks. Sarah was delighted at first—no more interruptions when she wanted to scroll on her phone. But after a while, she started to miss Charlie and called her mother-in-law more often. Then, two weeks after the argument, a court summons arrived. Tom had kept his promise—he’d begun divorce proceedings. And at the hearing, came another shock: Sarah’s own mum sided with Tom. I believe Charlie should stay with his father, she said firmly, eyeing her daughter. Unfortunately, Sarah has neglected her child entirely; all the work has fallen on me and Tom’s mum, Margaret. Tom works long hours, but still manages to spend time with his son. The judge nodded, glancing at Sarah with a faint smile. And rightly so—Sarah had nothing. No home, no job, no real bond with her child. Tom had a good chance of winning custody. I’m asking for more time! Don’t divorce us! Give me a chance! Sarah sobbed. Tom, I swear I’ll change. I’ll forget this nonsense about being a ‘housemaid’ and be the model wife! Just believe me! Alright… *************************** One Month Earlier My daughter is completely spoiled, I’m ashamed of her, said Susan. Tom, I understand—you’re right to question if you need such a wife. She’s home all day and doesn’t even tidy up, never mind taking care of her son. So if you want a divorce, I won’t judge. Just let me see Charlie, that’s all I’ll ask. I love Sarah, faults and all, Tom sighed. But things aren’t working. I want to give her a chance. Why not? And I know just how: file for divorce. Sarah will resist it, so you’ll get the three-month reconciliation period. That’ll sort her head out for sure. *************************** Sarah learnt her lesson. The flat was sparkling, scents of home-cooked meals filled the air, and Sarah herself was welcoming and attentive. At last, she focused on her son—much to Charlie’s delight. He really did love his scatterbrained mum…

01

‘We’ll Stay Here Until Summer!’: How I Kicked Out My Husband’s Cheeky Family, Changed the Locks, and Took Back My London Flat The intercom didn’t just ring—it wailed, demanding attention. Seven a.m. on a Saturday, the one day I’d hoped to sleep in after a hellish quarterly report, not play hostess. On the screen: my sister-in-law’s face, charging in like she was storming the Tower of London, three wild-haired children in tow. “Igor!” I shouted through gritted teeth. “Your relatives—your problem.” He stumbled out, pulling his shorts on backwards, fully aware that my patience for his family was buried deeper than the Tube. I’d sweat blood to buy this three-bed in central London before we even got married—my rules, my home, absolutely no squatters. Yet in barged Svetlana, shoving me aside as if I were a hatstand, dumping her bags onto my Italian stone tiles. “Thank goodness, we made it!” she announced, ordering me to get the kettle on as if this were her own manor. “It’s just for a week,” she said, explaining how their flat’s ‘full refurb’ left them homeless—cue wide-eyed innocence. “Seven days,” I snapped, setting strict house rules. Svetlana rolled her eyes—the hospitality was lost on her. One week turned to two, then three. My designer flat descended into chaos: dirty shoes everywhere, sticky counters, and Svetlana acting like Lady of the Manor. She even had the nerve, one night, to sneer, “Can’t you fill the fridge? You earn well enough—surely you can look after family?” But the final straw came when I caught her children bouncing on my orthopaedic mattress (priced like a first-class ticket), my limited-edition Tom Ford lipstick smeared across my bedroom wall. Svetlana waltzed in, shrugging, “They’re just kids! The lipstick? Oh, buy another. We’ll be here till summer, by the way—the builders are drunks. Bit of fun for you, isn’t it?” I left before I did something criminal. But then her phone flashed with a message: “Svetlana, I’ve sent next month’s rent. Tenants are happy to stay till August. +£800 to your account.” It clicked—there was no renovation. She’d rented out her own place for profit and moved her tribe in with me, soaking up free food and bills, raking in passive income, all on my dime. Genius—if you’re shameless. I snapped a photo of her phone and showed my husband. “Either she’s gone by lunchtime, or you’re both out. Your choice.” When Svetlana left ‘for shopping’ the next morning (presumably for luxury boots with her rent takings), I seized the moment—called a locksmith and the police. Forty minutes later, Svetlana returned from Harrods to find her things (stuffed in bin bags) by the lift and me standing firm at the door with a police officer. “Get your things. The hotel is closed,” I declared. She wailed. “My kids! My rights! I’ve nowhere to go!” I coolly replied: “Try your own flat—assuming your tenants don’t mind. If you step foot here again, I’ll report you to HMRC for undeclared rental income, and to the police for theft—a missing gold ring, perhaps?” Pale and defeated, she hauled her bags away, cursing me to kingdom come. Once the doors closed behind her, my husband returned—alone. “That was the last time,” I warned. “Next time your family pulls this, your suitcase will be right out there with theirs.” At last, I drank hot coffee in perfect silence in my own flat—renovated, peaceful, and finally, all mine. My crown didn’t slip—in fact, it fit perfectly.

022

A Message from the Wife “Darling, could you pick me up from work?” Jenny called her husband, hoping she wouldn’t have to spend forty minutes rattling around on the bus after a long day. “I’m busy,” he answered curtly. In the background, she could clearly hear the TV—so Arty was definitely home. Jenny wanted to cry. Their marriage was falling apart, and just six months ago her husband couldn’t do enough for her. What had changed so quickly? She didn’t know. She looked after herself, spending plenty of time at the gym. She was a fantastic cook—after all, she worked at one of the city’s most popular restaurants. She never asked for money, never made a fuss, never failed to make her husband happy. “You’ll get on his nerves if you keep pampering him like this,” her mum would say, listening to Jenny’s complaints. “Men don’t like everything handed to them on a plate.” “I just love him,” Jenny would smile helplessly. “And he loves me…” ***** “I guess he’s bored of me,” Jenny chewed her lip, scrolling through his browsing history. Apparently, Arty spent all his free time on dating sites, chatting up loads of different girls. “Why couldn’t he just talk to me about it? I would have understood. Why torture yourself living with someone you don’t love? And me with your attitude?” So—divorce. Well, she could manage. But she wasn’t going to let him off the hook quite so easily. He deserved a little payback. That evening, Jenny registered on the very same dating site as her husband, found his profile, and sent him a message. She grabbed a photo off the internet, applied a bit of Photoshop, and was sure Arty would take the bait. He did. The messages started flowing. Arty described himself as single, ready for a real relationship, even for children. He kept raving about his amazing character—Jenny nearly cried with laughter; she knew how hard it was to actually live with him. “Let’s meet up,” Jenny wrote, holding her breath for a reply. “I’m up for it,” Arty wrote back a few seconds later. “But my sister’s staying at mine while she prepares for her uni exams, so let’s meet on neutral turf—and maybe continue the evening at a hotel?” “Seriously?” Jenny blurted as she read. “Why do you just assume your date will go straight to a hotel with you? Any decent person would be insulted! Still—it works in my favour.” “How about we meet at mine? I live alone in a cottage outside the city. No one will bother us…” Jenny wondered if he’d say yes. “Brilliant idea!” Arty was clearly delighted—probably about not having to fork out for a hotel. “Send me the address and time. I’ll rush over on the wings of love.” “25 Willow Lane, ten o’clock. Does that work?” “Perfect! I’ll be there.” At nine, Arty pretended he’d been called into work. He couldn’t find his car keys and finally asked Jenny if she’d seen them. “They were on the table,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye while clutching the keys in her pocket. “Maybe the cat knocked them somewhere?” “Fine, I’ll take a taxi. Don’t wait up.” Jenny had no intention of waiting up. She spent her time packing her things—luckily, she had her own flat from her gran. The only thing she left behind was the divorce form, right out in the open. Arty didn’t get home until morning, absolutely fuming. It had taken him over an hour just to get there, and as for “Angela” from the website—let’s just say the girl who answered the door looked nothing like her photos. The woman was three times his size, dressed only in a semi-transparent dressing gown, and Arty would’ve paid anything to erase the sight from his mind. To make matters worse, she wouldn’t let him leave easily—he had to call a taxi to escape her. While he waited, he froze out in the windswept front garden, shivering in his blazer. The taxi took forever, and then the strange driver took him even further out of his way before finally dropping him home. What a night. Only then, when he saw the divorce papers on the table, did it click who’d been behind the whole ordeal. Next to the papers, scrawled in lipstick, were the words: This Sweet Revenge…

01

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I Thought My Marriage Was Thriving Until My Friend Posed a Devastating Question