I always trusted my husband with the basement—it was his man cave, his sanctuary. I never questioned it… until one night, when I heard a woman laugh down there. He was supposed to be out buying milk. That night shattered everything.
Looking back, the signs had been there. Perfume that wasn’t mine, late-night grocery runs for things we never used, and sudden pre-workout showers. I ignored the red flags—until I saw a shadow move in the basement while he was “out.”
Curious and uneasy, I waited for his next “milk run.” I crept downstairs… and heard her laugh. Then I heard her say, “She’s dumb. She should’ve figured it out by now.” That’s when the anger hit. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I made a plan. The next day, I bought twenty feeder rats.
That night, while the two of them laughed below, I opened the cage and let chaos loose. Then I locked the basement door behind me. The next morning, Evan emerged—sweaty, frantic, and furious. But I was already done. I handed him divorce papers I’d saved from our last rough patch. He tried to apologize. I didn’t respond. I just walked away. Now, I live in a quiet suburb, in a home that’s all mine. No shadows. No secrets. Just peace. And this time, the only one in my house… is me.