I remember the day we got married like it was yesterday. Ten years. A decade. We’d planned this trip for so long, meticulously. A private villa, overlooking turquoise waters, just us. A celebration of us. Our enduring love, our partnership. It was supposed to be perfect.
Then the call came. Not even a text, not a sit-down conversation. A rushed, almost apologetic call from his office. “Babe, I… I have to cancel the trip.” My heart dropped faster than a stone in a well. My stomach churned. What? No. This can’t be happening. I thought it was a work crisis, something unavoidable. I tried to stay calm. “What happened? Is everything okay?”
“It’s my mom,” he said, his voice strained. “She needs me. I’m taking her on a trip instead.”
My blood ran cold. I felt a surge of disbelief, then a slow, burning anger. “You’re… you’re taking her on our anniversary trip? The one we’ve been planning for a year?” The words came out sharper than I intended, laced with a bitterness I hadn’t known I possessed.
A woman in a red dress at a hotel | Source: Freepik
He got defensive. “It’s not our trip, not anymore. And it’s not the same place. It’s just… she needs this. It’s important.” Important. More important than our 10th anniversary. More important than me. That was the knife twist. He didn’t elaborate. He just kept repeating, “You wouldn’t understand. She needs me.”
I tried to argue. I pleaded. I explained how much this meant to me, how much I needed this time with him, how much I felt dismissed. He just shut down. He said he had to go, that she was relying on him. He packed a bag, kissed me quickly, almost distractedly, and left. Just like that. Our anniversary, our plans, our us, all shattered for his mother.
The silence in our home was deafening. Every corner seemed to echo with the phantom sound of our laughter, our plans, now replaced by the void of his absence and the crushing weight of his betrayal. He chose her. Again. It wasn’t the first time. There had always been a quiet competition, a subtle tug-of-war for his attention, his time, his love. But this? This was a public declaration. I was second-best. Always.
Days bled into a miserable week. My phone stayed silent. No “thinking of you” texts from some exotic locale. Just the occasional, short update about his mom’s enjoyment. Each message felt like a fresh wound, salt rubbed into an open gash. How could he be so oblivious? How could he not see the pain he inflicted? My hurt turned into a cold, hard resolve.
I lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, tears long since dried. My mind raced, fueled by a potent cocktail of anger, humiliation, and a deep, aching loneliness. He took my future with him when he walked out that door. He made me feel worthless. I need to make him understand what he’s done. Not with words, because words meant nothing to him anymore. With actions. With a pain that would mirror mine.
A couple during a romantic dinner | Source: Freepik
Our joint savings account. The one specifically designated for our dream cottage down payment. Every penny meticulously saved, every extra shift worked, every sacrifice made, all for our future. That was my target. He had taken our celebration, our memory. I would take our future.
It took me a few calls, a trip to the bank, a steely determination that masked the trembling in my hands. I moved it all. Every last cent. Transferred it into an account he had no access to, an account only I controlled. The money that was supposed to secure our next decade, gone.
But that wasn’t enough. I needed him to see it. To feel the gut punch of what it meant to be left behind, to have your dreams unilaterally dismantled. So, I bought a plane ticket. Not to our original dream destination – that was tainted now. But to an equally luxurious, exclusive resort, one we had often talked about, but one that was known for its indulgent single occupancy experiences. No couples packages. No romantic dinners for two. Just blissful, solitary extravagance. I booked it for the exact dates he was supposed to be gone with his mother.
Before boarding, I took a picture of my boarding pass, a small, triumphant smile playing on my lips despite the hollowness in my chest. I drafted a message, deleted it, drafted another. Finally, I settled on something short, sharp, and utterly devoid of emotion. “Enjoy your trip. I’m enjoying mine.” I sent it. Then I turned off my phone.
Two people toasting to something | Source: Unsplash
The first few days were a strange mix of euphoria and emptiness. I lounged by the infinity pool, ordered expensive cocktails, ate gourmet meals alone. I told myself I was reclaiming my worth, asserting my independence. This is what you get for taking me for granted. I tried to feel powerful, vengeful. But beneath it all, a profound sadness lingered. My “revenge” felt like a band-aid on a gaping wound.
On the third day, a familiar number flashed across the screen. He was calling. I let it ring. And ring again. Finally, curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of something else, made me answer. His voice was different. Not angry. Not confused about the money. He sounded… broken. “I’m back,” he whispered. “I need you to come home. PLEASE. I need to talk to you.”
A chill ran down my spine. This wasn’t the reaction I expected. My heart started to pound. I booked the next flight home, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach. What had I done?
He was waiting at the door when I arrived. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He pulled me into a hug, desperate, shaking. My carefully constructed wall of anger began to crack.
He led me to the couch, his hand never leaving mine. His voice was barely audible. “My mom… she’s been sick for a while. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. They gave her weeks, maybe a couple of months at best.”
My breath hitched. The air left my lungs in a silent whoosh. No. This can’t be real.
“She didn’t want anyone to know,” he continued, tears streaming down his face now. “She hates pity. She just wanted one last, beautiful memory. A final trip. Just her, and me, before… before it was too late. She made me promise not to tell you, or anyone. She wanted to protect us from the pain for as long as possible.” He squeezed my hand, his grip crushing. “This trip… it was her last wish. She passed away this morning.”
A cozy couple | Source: Unsplash
My revenge. My anger. My feeling of being second-best. It all crumbled into dust around me. He didn’t cancel our anniversary trip to hurt me. He canceled it to honor his dying mother’s last wish. He had carried this unimaginable burden alone, protecting her, protecting me from the truth, while I, consumed by my own hurt and ego, had systematically dismantled our shared future. My triumph turned into a tsunami of guilt and regret. The “revenge” that tasted so sweet now tasted like ash. I had just destroyed everything, not out of strength, but out of a blind, unforgivable ignorance. And now, the person I loved was shattered, mourning, and I was the one who had just poured salt into his deepest wound. I had taken everything he had left. EVERYTHING.
