Imagine this: after 47 years of marriage, my husband suddenly drops the bombshell that he wants a divorce and a “life of freedom.” When I asked if he was actually serious, he just smirked like some kind of movie villain and said, “Come on, Nicky! You can’t say you didn’t see this coming. We both know there’s nothing left between us. I don’t want to waste my remaining years sulking around. I want to live, be free, and maybe even find someone… SO YES, I’M DIVORCING YOU.”
If that wasn’t enough, the man had the audacity to announce that he’d already booked himself a trip to Mexico with money from our joint account. The divorce? Not exactly a shock—I’d known for ages that he was sneaking around with some younger woman. But I stuck it out, convincing myself that familiarity was better than facing the mess of starting over.
But here’s the kicker: when he drained our savings and capped it off with that smug little farewell speech, something in me snapped. I didn’t cry, didn’t plead—I got mad. And when I say mad, I mean revenge-mode activated. Let’s just say I came up with a plan so good, it didn’t take long before John was back on my doorstep, begging to come home. 
