My husband and I hit our 2nd anniversary. I surprised him with the smartwatch he wanted, his favorite dinner, and candles. As we swapped gifts, he handed me an envelope, with handwriting I didn’t know.
I opened the letter. He had the audacity to give me a breakup letter. It wasn’t even in his handwriting.
That’s what threw me first. I blinked at the page, thinking maybe it was a joke. He smiled like nothing was wrong and took a bite of his mashed potatoes.
I looked back down at the letter, and my hands began to tremble. It was signed by him, but clearly written by someone else. The words were cold.
Formal. “I care about you deeply, but I don’t think this marriage is working. I’m sorry.”
I looked up and asked, “Is this a joke?”
He didn’t even look guilty.
Just… calm. “I didn’t know how to tell you. So I asked a friend to help me put it into words.”
I pushed my plate away.
“You had someone else write our breakup?”
“It’s just… you’re emotional. I knew you’d take it badly if I just told you.”
I stood up. “You think this feels better?”
He shrugged.
“At least you can read it a few times and process it. I didn’t want a scene.”
The room felt smaller and hotter with every passing second. My stomach twisted.
All I’d done was love him. Sure, our marriage had its ups and downs, but nothing that ever made me think this would happen. Especially not tonight.
“I made you dinner,” I said, my voice cracking. “I got you the watch you’ve been eyeing for months.”
He looked down at his wrist, admiring the new smartwatch like it was a trophy. “I know.
I didn’t expect you to go all out.”
That was the moment something shifted in me. This man, the one I’d cried for, prayed for, built a life with—he didn’t respect me. Not enough to end things face-to-face.
Not enough to even write his own letter. I left that night. Grabbed my keys, my purse, and drove to my sister’s apartment across town.
I didn’t even cry. I was too stunned. The next morning, he texted me a list of things he wanted from the apartment.
No apology. No explanation. Just bullet points.
“My blue hoodie. My passport. The Xbox.”
My sister read the list over my shoulder and muttered, “What a clown.”
I nodded.
“A complete circus.”
We spent that week boxing up his stuff. I didn’t contact him again. He sent a friend to pick the boxes up.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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