At the family dinner, my husband slammed the divorce papers onto the table…
The Sunday family dinner at the Miller estate had always felt like a formal show, something stiff and suffocating, where everyone pretended to be better than they truly were. That evening, the air inside the huge dining room felt even heavier than usual. The tall wooden walls, the gigantic crystal chandelier, the thick carpet under the long table—all of it seemed to press down on me as if the house itself wanted to swallow me whole.
The smell of burnt roast beef still drifted in the air, mixing with a quiet tension that had been building for years.
Above the fireplace hung a large portrait of David’s father, painted with a stern look that always felt like he was judging me personally. And of course, on that night, the painted eyes seemed even more disapproving than usual.
David, my husband, had recently been promoted to CEO of a small but fast-growing tech company called Innovate Dynamics. His ego—always huge—had grown into something much worse.
He walked differently, spoke differently, and looked at people as if the world had finally realized he was the most important person alive.
The promotion didn’t change him—it amplified the worst parts of him. He waited on purpose until dessert plates were taken away. He always loved dramatic moments, and that night he wanted the biggest one of all.
The room was silent except for the quiet clink of someone’s glass.
Then, suddenly, David lifted a stack of professionally printed papers and slammed them on the table right in front of me. The loud sound echoed around the room like a judge hitting a gavel.
They were divorce papers. I stared at the papers for a second.
My heart twisted, but my face stayed calm.
David leaned back in his chair, looking at me with a cold, empty expression I had never seen during the early years of our marriage. He looked like a stranger. “Sign it,” he said coldly.
“I’m done looking at your boring small-town face.
I’m done pretending you fit into my new life. I’m a CEO now.
I need someone who looks the part.”
His voice had no warmth left in it. No love.
No memory of everything we had lived through together.
Beside him sat his mother, Brenda, wearing a string of pearls that she always touched whenever she felt superior. That night, she kept running her fingers along the pearls again and again, smiling like a snake. “My son is a director now,” she sneered.
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