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.