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The Neglected Wife's Maine Escape

The Neglected Wife's Maine Escape

Gavin

5.0
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11
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My world shattered when the call came: my beloved father was gone. But even as grief consumed me, my husband, Mark, dealt a cruel blow. He skipped the funeral, prioritizing his "friend" Tiffany-a woman whose endless dramas always seemed to come first. Returning home from Maine, heartbroken and exhausted, he casually asked me to cook chicken soup for Tiffany because she was "not feeling well." That was the moment I realized I wasn't just a wife or a grieving daughter; I was merely his live-in chef for another woman. Then, Tiffany began to appear everywhere. She took over my desk at my old job, openly supported by Mark, who claimed I wasn't "using it much anyway." She even clung to him at my own farewell party, while Mark made endless excuses for her sensitive needs. The casual contempt in Mark's eyes, his constant choice of her over my profound pain, was the final, cold confirmation: I was utterly discarded, an inconvenience in my own life. How could he be so blind? So utterly consumed by someone else's petty crises while my entire world fell apart? Why did he never see the depth of my despair, or the silent resolve hardening within me? But their casual cruelty became my catalyst. That night, instead of mourning what was lost, I meticulously planned my escape. I printed divorce papers, discreetly tucking them beneath some mundane volunteer forms. The very next day, I had Mark sign them, unknowingly sealing his own fate as he rushed off to Tiffany's latest "emergency." I left without a word, driving towards Maine, towards my father's dream, and a new life he could no longer ruin.

Introduction

My world shattered when the call came: my beloved father was gone.

But even as grief consumed me, my husband, Mark, dealt a cruel blow.

He skipped the funeral, prioritizing his "friend" Tiffany-a woman whose endless dramas always seemed to come first.

Returning home from Maine, heartbroken and exhausted, he casually asked me to cook chicken soup for Tiffany because she was "not feeling well."

That was the moment I realized I wasn't just a wife or a grieving daughter; I was merely his live-in chef for another woman.

Then, Tiffany began to appear everywhere.

She took over my desk at my old job, openly supported by Mark, who claimed I wasn't "using it much anyway."

She even clung to him at my own farewell party, while Mark made endless excuses for her sensitive needs.

The casual contempt in Mark's eyes, his constant choice of her over my profound pain, was the final, cold confirmation: I was utterly discarded, an inconvenience in my own life.

How could he be so blind?

So utterly consumed by someone else's petty crises while my entire world fell apart?

Why did he never see the depth of my despair, or the silent resolve hardening within me?

But their casual cruelty became my catalyst.

That night, instead of mourning what was lost, I meticulously planned my escape.

I printed divorce papers, discreetly tucking them beneath some mundane volunteer forms.

The very next day, I had Mark sign them, unknowingly sealing his own fate as he rushed off to Tiffany's latest "emergency."

I left without a word, driving towards Maine, towards my father's dream, and a new life he could no longer ruin.

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The Homecoming Queen and the Home-Wrecker

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Eleven years. I dedicated them all to Wesley Scott, sacrificing my architect dreams to support his political ambitions. After a decade of being his unassuming small-town Texas girl, he finally proposed, not out of love, I suspected, but for his political image. Then, an anonymous email arrived with a photo: Wesley and his childhood friend, Gabrielle, smiling, holding a deed to a luxury Austin condo, purchased jointly under their names. Beneath it, Gabrielle' s chilling message: "Coming home for good." Wesley dismissed it as "just a favor," his casual use of "Gabby" a slap in the face. But the next day, the building manager casually confirmed Gabrielle was the primary owner, and I, his fiancée, was merely "the friend," a temporary guest. That night, at Gabrielle's welcome dinner, Wesley sat beside her, radiating ownership, as everyone toasted them as "the perfect couple." Then, a friend goaded them into a kiss, and Wesley, playing to the crowd, gave Gabrielle a soft, lingering kiss, a gesture of intimacy he never showed me. All eyes turned to me, expecting tears, a scene, but I just smiled. "If Gabrielle wants him," I said, my voice clear and calm, "she can have him." He dragged me out, furious, but a later anonymous message, a screenshot of their secret Instagram post-"To our future!" and his reply, "Whatever you want, you get. Always"-extinguished any lingering hope. It was the same day he'd asked me to move in, calling it "our first real step." His betrayal culminated when a mob of HOA women, spurred by Gabrielle, publicly assaulted me at the condo, and Wesley stood by, calculating the optics of defending me. I collapsed, humiliated, only to later see his reply on the HOA Facebook chat, throwing me under the bus: "The owner on the deed is the one who matters." He had confirmed I was nothing, a squatter to his entire world. When he abandoned me in the hospital for Gabrielle's fake allergic reaction, I knew. It was over. Three days later, at our lavish engagement party, instead of our romantic slideshow, I played the video of their kiss, the condo deed, and his damning words on the jumbo screens. His political career ignited in a glorious fireball. "Why, Wesley?" I told him calmly when he screamed down the phone. "I was just making way for the real couple. After all, the owner on the deed is the one who matters." I hung up and blocked him, and everyone from that life. I was free to build my own.

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