He stood in our kitchen, wearing a suit I had ironed that very morning, and said the words that still echo in my bones: “I climbed the ladder. You stayed a nobody. I need a better partner than you.”
Twelve years. A shared mortgage. Inside jokes. Quiet Sunday mornings. All reduced to a verdict on my worth.
Within weeks, he had replaced me with someone younger—sharper heels, brighter laugh, the kind of woman who looked good beside success. I packed my things with shaking hands and moved into a small apartment that smelled like paint and loneliness. Nights were the worst. I replayed our life like a film stuck on rewind, wondering when I had become so easy to discard.
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