Being married to Liam was both emotionally and financially exhausting. One night, I tried to talk to him, asking him to change for the sake of our daughter, but he casually suggested a divorce. Soon enough, he was my ex-husband.
Even after our separation, I couldn’t shake off the things that led to it. I struggled to understand how someone could be as selfish as Liam, always prioritizing his own desires over our family’s well-being.
One time, our daughter Danielle asked me to enroll her in ballet classes. I adjusted our expenses to make it happen, knowing how costly these lessons could be. But just as I was about to call the academy, Liam came home and proudly announced that he had invested all our savings into a cryptocurrency his friends assured him would make him rich overnight.
As expected, it was a scam that left us broke.
“Liam, you can’t keep doing this,” I told him.
Instead of acknowledging his mistake, he started yelling, accusing me of not believing in him.
And he was right—I didn’t. I couldn’t trust his reckless money-making schemes when he refused to get a stable job. That night, he asked for a divorce, and once I realized he had no intention of being a good husband or father, I agreed.
After the split, Danielle and I were able to keep the house, which I had inherited from my grandfather. Liam, on the other hand, disappeared. He never checked in on our daughter, never asked how she was doing.
Then, one night, while Danielle and I were asleep, I was jolted awake by her terrified screams. Rushing to her room, I found her shaking.
“Mom, that man had a crowbar. I think it was… Dad.”
Her words felt like a dagger to my chest.
“Are you sure, honey?” I asked, hoping she was mistaken.
Tears welled in her eyes as she nodded. “Yes, Mom. It was Dad. But his eyes looked scary.”
I couldn’t believe Liam would do something like this.
The next morning, I noticed that some of Danielle’s jewelry was missing—a small necklace and a pair of earrings my parents had gifted her at birth. Fearing he might return, I sent Danielle to stay with my mom and installed security cameras around the house, which would alert me to any movement.
Weeks passed in peace until one night, my phone buzzed with a motion alert at the front door. My heart pounded as I immediately dialed 911.
“Someone’s in my house. Please send help.”
As I waited for the police, I carefully crept down the stairs, moving past the kitchen and into the laundry room. From there, I realized the intruder—who I suspected was Liam—was in the garage.
I pushed open the door and saw a figure dressed in black, a crowbar in hand, trying to move a heavy shelf.
“Liam!” I called out.
He froze. Though he wore a mask, I recognized those eyes instantly.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.
He didn’t answer—just started walking toward me.
Panicking, I darted to the other side of the garage and hit the button to open the door. As Liam tried to escape, two police officers arrived, guns drawn.
“Freeze! Drop the crowbar!” one of them commanded.
I stepped forward, anger burning inside me.
“You stole your own daughter’s jewelry—what else do you want?”
Liam finally spoke. He said that while packing his things before the divorce, he had noticed a safe hidden behind a shelf and wanted to see what was inside.
“A safe?” I repeated, confused. I had never seen a safe in this house. But now that I knew it existed, I had to find out what was in it.
The next morning, I called a locksmith to open it. Inside, there were no gold bars or expensive jewelry—just stacks of bank documents.
To my shock, the papers revealed that my grandfather had deposit boxes filled with his fortune, all registered in my name.
Later, in the courtroom, as I testified against Liam for breaking into my home, I couldn’t help but smirk.
“Thanks to you, I’m now a rich woman,” I told him. “And you? I hope your time in prison teaches you a lesson.”