Trusting my husband’s “private time” in the basement was my first mistake. The second? Ignoring the signs—like the extra toothbrush I found behind the laundry detergent.
But the night I heard a woman’s voice downstairs while he was “at the gym,” denial wasn’t an option anymore. I listened as she called me stupid for not suspecting anything. That’s when I decided to fight back—creatively.
The next day, I bought two dozen feeder rats. That night, while they were busy below, I opened the cage and locked the basement door. The chaos that followed was priceless.
My husband stumbled out the next morning, frantic and furious. I didn’t yell. I just handed him divorce papers and changed the locks. Now, my house is truly mine—and the only thing hiding in the basement? Dust.
