**The Anniversary Gift That Changed My Life**
I studied my reflection in the mirror carefully. Today, I looked my best—neatly styled hair, flawless makeup, delicate jewellery chosen with care. It had to be perfect—today marked mine and Paul’s wedding anniversary.
The celebration was in full swing. Guests took turns approaching us, offering congratulations, handing over gifts, laughter and music filling the air. I smiled, yet deep down, an odd sensation settled in me, as though something significant was about to happen.
When it came time to exchange presents, I picked up the microphone.
“Well then, darling, our turn at last. I do hope you’ll like my gift,” I said, watching my husband closely.
The doors of the banquet hall swung open, and several men wheeled in an enormous box draped in vibrant fabric. Paul rose from his seat, anticipation in his eyes—until the cloth dropped, and his face froze in shock.
Just hours before the party, I’d been sat in our bedroom, rereading a message on my husband’s phone. Each word cut like a knife. *”I miss you terribly… Counting the hours until we meet again.”* His mistress.
But the real blow wasn’t the infidelity. It was the woman herself—fifteen years his senior, heavyset, far from conventional beauty. Yet he’d chosen her.
At the sound of footsteps, I quickly deleted the messages and set the phone aside. Paul strolled in, whistling cheerfully—a bonus from work had him daydreaming about taking “*his Natalie*” to the seaside.
Catching my sombre expression, he frowned.
“Something wrong? You don’t seem yourself.”
“Everything’s fine,” I replied evenly. “Just thinking about tonight. Speaking of, I need money for the party.”
“Of course, no problem,” he grinned.
I couldn’t explain why I felt so calm. In the past, his affairs had sent me into hysterics, threats of divorce. This time, silence. Something within me had shifted.
Paul stepped onto the balcony to send another love note, while I reflected on the countless times I’d forgiven him. His mother always took his side:
*”Men are like cats—if they’re warm and fed at home, they’ll keep coming back. Don’t make a scene, love. Lose him, and it’ll be your own fault.”*
His father agreed: *”Why complain? Your Paul’s a solid man. Works hard, brings in the money. What more could you want?”*
But I knew better. This *”solid man”* cheated at every opportunity. And his father? Just as guilty—just better at hiding it.
I’d been raised where betrayal was unthinkable, where self-respect came first. Yet in Paul’s family, endurance was the rule—*”put up with it, it’ll settle.”*
Friends urged me to leave while I could. But where would I go? Three children, no steady income. My parents’ home was already packed with my brother’s family.
And despite everything, part of me still loved Paul—for our school days, first confessions of love, for our children. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he’d “get it out of his system.”
But that tender message stung anew. I knew—enough was enough.
I rang an event planner. The owner, Leonard, listened patiently as I fought back tears.
*”You deserve to live for yourself and your children,”* he said quietly. *”Why suffer for a man who doesn’t value you?”*
And in that moment, my plan took shape. A plan to end this marriage—for good.
The anniversary party was held at a grand countryside manor. Guests overflowed—family, friends, colleagues. Even Natalie, Paul’s mistress, lingered in the crowd with a garish smile.
I stood aside, observing. Impeccable—elegant black dress, heels, expensive jewellery.
When the time came for gifts, I took the microphone.
*”My dearest Paul! Ten years ago, I chose you as my husband. Since then, I’ve learned perfect men exist only in fairy tales. But today, I thank you for one vital lesson—what a family should never be.”*
A massive cake was wheeled in. Silence fell.
The covering was pulled away—and out stepped three scantily clad women: blonde, brunette, redhead.
Paul’s jaw dropped. Natalie paled.
I leaned in. *”Enjoy, darling. You always wanted more ‘variety,’ didn’t you?”*
Amid gasps and whistles, I took the children’s hands and walked out. Leonard waited by the door.
The divorce was ugly. Paul screamed, accused me of betrayal. But the courts ruled swiftly.
I rented a flat, found work. Leonard helped me rebuild—not just as support, but as a loving husband and father to my children.
Now, years later, I’ve never regretted my choice.
Life begins where patience ends. No one has the right to trample your dignity.
