Thanksgiving's Bitter Truth

“Thanksgiving. I sat alone, picking at a dry turkey. My wife, Olivia, CEO of the brewery we built from my savings and recipes, was supposedly on a "vital business trip." Then, our young marketing intern, Leo Vance, posted an Instagram story: Olivia, radiant, carving a turkey at his "family home." His arm was around my wife, and the caption read: "Mom and Dad already love their future daughter-in-law!" I commented: "Respect your choices. Blessings." The next morning, Olivia' s furious call erupted. "What the hell were you doing? Everyone at work is talking! Leo' s devastated!" She defended him, as always, while he posted passive-aggressive videos, tagging me. My seven years, my sacrifices, my very identity – all dismissed as I was labeled "cold" and "old-fashioned," while Leo's clear incompetence became my fault. The hollow quiet in my chest swelled into a sickening realization. How could she be so willfully blind? How easily she cast aside our shared history and the empire we built, all for a manipulative intern she claimed to be "mentoring." My contributions were mundane, but his fabricated struggles were tragic. Enough. I had divorce papers she' d unknowingly signed a month prior, eager to rush off to a "conference" with Leo. I grabbed them, drove straight to my lawyer' s office, and told him the one thing I truly meant: "File it. Let the 90 days begin."”