I’ve been a lurker on Reddit for a while, but today I finally have a story to tell. I’m a 36-year-old man who was married to a 35-year-old woman named Carolyn for what I believed would be eternity. In the end, I’ll never be able to reclaim those six years of my life.
When we connected on Instagram, I truly believed I had struck gold. She seemed perfect—humorous and beautiful. My early years were quite chaotic; my dad was the victim of severe abuse from my mom, who would throw plates and scream matches at 3:00 in the morning. Because of this, when I was dating Carolyn, I was constantly on guard. I spent two years scrutinizing every aspect of her life: how she handled money, stress, waiters—everything. To be completely honest, she aced every test. She was compassionate, tolerant, and giving, all the qualities my mother lacked. I believed I had done my research and found a decent woman. I even recall telling my best friend that I had finally ended my family’s abusive cycle. I was mistaken.
We got married in a gorgeous ceremony, purchased a charming suburban home, and began what I hoped would be our happily ever after. I had no idea that I was about to enter a nightmare.
About two years in, everything started to go south. Every month, like clockwork, we had huge blowout fights over the most ridiculous things: the dishes in the sink, my working late, her hanging out with her friends. How we had gone from her leaving sweet notes in my lunchbox to her yelling at me for buying the incorrect brand of coffee was beyond me.
I pleaded for us to go to couples therapy. We attended exactly one session. The therapist began highlighting some communication problems, suggesting that Carolyn wasn’t managing conflict in a healthy way. She cried uncontrollably, said the therapist was assaulting her, and vowed never to return. “You’re trying to make me look crazy,” she accused me later. Her father had passed away just before our arguments became more heated, so I tried to be understanding, but she refused to talk about it or get help.
Eventually, we settled into this strange pattern where we essentially just shared a room. We would get up, leave for work, return home, have dinner while watching television, and then go to bed. We hardly spoke anymore. But I was still foolishly in love with her. I firmly believed in the “for better or worse” part of our vows. I suppose I overlooked the part that also included “forsaking all others.”
The Discovery
I work a dull corporate job that requires some travel. I had been dispatched to a business expo in another state for four days. Three days in, a serious issue with our servers back home caused my supervisor to call everyone back early. I quickly booked the first flight home.
I had this lovely, dumb idea to surprise my wife, like in the movies. During my Uber trip from the airport, I planned the whole thing. I stopped at a posh florist and spent $80 on her favorite purple orchids and even got her some champagne and high-end chocolates. I thought this impromptu gesture might remind her why she fell in love with me.
When I arrived home at 2:00 PM, her car was in the driveway, which made sense as she worked from home on Thursdays. The house seemed normal, but I recall a few strange things. Her favorite playlist was playing from upstairs, the one she only listened to when she was in a particularly upbeat mood. There were two wine glasses in the sink. God, I was such a fool.
So eager to surprise her, I went straight upstairs to our bedroom. I could hear other sounds as the music grew louder, but my brain wasn’t comprehending what they meant. You know the scene in horror films where everyone yells at the character to keep the door closed? That character was me.
My world fell apart when I opened the door. In that one second, every pleasant memory, every trusting moment, every “I love you” turned to ash. There, in our bed, was my wife, the person I had loved, supported, and built a life with for six years. Beneath some strange guy. The same bed where I had hugged her after her father passed away, where we had discussed having children. She was acting as though I didn’t exist.
As I stood there, the flowers I had bought fell to the ground. The man had the audacity to try and scurry past me, fumbling to put on his clothes. Something inside of me shattered. Before I even realized what I was doing, my hand was around his throat. It wasn’t a death grip, but it was a clear signal that he wasn’t simply leaving. Instead of punching him, I gave him two open-handed slaps across his face, like a dramatic housewife from a soap opera. The man’s expression quickly changed from fear to rage, as if he were actually going to fight me in my own home. I released him before the situation worsened; this pitiful excuse for a man wasn’t worth an assault charge. The true traitor was still in that bedroom.
My entire body trembled as I turned back to Carolyn. She was fumbling with her bra as if it were a trivial annoyance, the crushed orchids scattered on the floor. She was looking in the mirror, straightening her hair nonchalantly, as though she hadn’t just ruined our entire marriage.
And you want to know what this woman had the audacity to say to me? She gave me this irritated look and asked, “Why are you even back?” Not, “Nat, I’m sorry, I can explain.” The fact that I came home early and caught her cheating in the house we bought together—the house where I paid the majority of the mortgage—actually annoyed her.
“You weren’t supposed to be back,” she muttered under her breath, as if I were to blame.
Then, this woman, this nasty jerk, went totally crazy, as though I had just blown apart our marriage. “You weren’t expected to return!” she screamed, her face turning red and splotchy. “This is your fault! You wouldn’t have seen this if you had just told me you were coming home!”
This woman could have won an Olympic gold medal for mental gymnastics.
“You declined my request for an open relationship!” she screamed, as if that somehow justified her actions. Yes, six months prior, she had asked me once in a drunken chat, and I had declined because I’m a monogamist. “I have needs!” she continued to rant, as if I were a monster for asking my wife to be faithful.
Something broke inside of me. I took three steps across the room, lifted my fist, and grabbed her by the collar of the shirt I had bought her for her birthday. But seeing the real, authentic fear in her eyes, I couldn’t do it. That’s not me. So with my hands still clenched, I moved back and released her. The dark side of me still wishes I’d given in to that anger, but I’m glad I didn’t.
The moment I released her, she was suddenly no longer afraid. Now, in all of this, she was the victim. “Really? You were going to hit me?” she yelled at my back as I turned to leave. “This is the precise reason I no longer love you! You’re not a man at all!” After six years of marriage, she was trying to make me the antagonist in this tale.
I needed to leave that house. It smelled of treachery. I took my keys and wallet and went for a drive, finding myself at my friend Mark’s house. After one look at my face, he pulled out the whiskey.
The Aftermath and a New Beginning
While I was at Mark’s apartment, my phone started exploding. Carolyn had decided to try and tear me down via text. And holy hell, the things she sent me are unbelievable. Just last week, this woman had texted me “I love you” with little heart emojis. Now, she was providing me with in-depth analyses comparing her affair partner’s manhood with mine, complete with performance assessments and size measurements, like she was writing a Yelp review for a bad restaurant. She even had the audacity to tell me her boyfriend had “ruined her for other men,” as if I would want her back.
Then, the best part: she was furious that I had destroyed her “good thing.” She was upset with me for interrupting her affair.
“Document, document, document!” Mark kept shouting, and he was absolutely correct. I took screenshots of everything. Not even a minute after she finished her tirade, I saw the tiny message bubbles begin to disappear one by one as she deleted her confession. Unfortunately for her, the screenshots were now securely saved on my phone, ready to prove to a divorce judge why I shouldn’t be required to pay her any alimony.
The two weeks that followed were a haze of meetings with lawyers. Finally, I found Lucas, who seemed to genuinely care and didn’t require me to sell a kidney to pay him. When I showed him the screenshots, Lucas actually grinned. He acknowledged we had a strong case.
Serving Carolyn with divorce papers was the next exciting part. For three weeks, she avoided the server. When she was finally caught leaving a yoga session, she took the entire 30 days allowed by law to reply—a move of pure spite, designed to drag everything out and cost me money.
Once the proceedings started, Carolyn became the queen of petty. She couldn’t locate bank statements, forgot necessary paperwork, and was late for every appointment. Her lawyer kept sending absurd settlement offers. In addition to the house and alimony, she wanted half of my 401k. All while she was still seeing her affair partner.
While Carolyn was working tirelessly to prolong the divorce, I decided to re-enter the dating scene. I went through a phase of hooking up with random women from dating apps, but each morning felt worse than the one before. That way of life simply wasn’t for me.
I needed something to keep my mind busy, so one Saturday, I went to this small independent bookstore downtown. While standing completely disoriented in the sci-fi section, a woman next to me laughed gently. “Need some assistance?” she asked, holding a book so enormous it could have been used as a weapon.
The next thing I knew, we were sitting in these comfortable corner chairs, and she was teaching me the basics of contemporary science fiction. When she talked about her favorite novels, her eyes glowed. A brief book recommendation evolved into a two-hour discussion. For the first time in months, I had a meaningful conversation, free of attorneys and divorce documents. For those two hours, I forgot all about Carolyn.
I eventually plucked up the confidence to ask for her number. Her name was Emma. On our first date, I knew I had to tell her about my ongoing divorce. I mentally practiced the exchange, anticipating her to flee. But Emma just took a sip of her wine and said, “Thank you for being honest. We all have baggage; at least you’re addressing yours.”
Emma was the opposite of Carolyn. Where Carolyn would yell, Emma would explain. She showed genuine interest in my work and never once made me feel guilty about the divorce. For the first time in years, I felt seen.
The Attack
After five months of dating Emma, I was beginning to feel content again. Naturally, that’s when everything went completely haywire.
I had just spent a wonderful Saturday with Emma. We were returning to her car in the mall parking lot when I heard an engine scream, like someone had stomped on the gas pedal. I turned to see a car speeding directly at us, primarily toward Emma. Out of pure impulse, I grabbed her arm to pull her away, but I wasn’t quick enough. The car clipped her leg, and I watched in horror as it broke. I will never forget the sound of her bone cracking and her scream.
As she fell, I slid down with her, trying to shield her body with mine. I was about to dial 911 when I heard the tires squealing again. The car was backing up. It dawned on me then: this was no accident. This driver was trying to strike us again.
With my pulse racing, I grabbed Emma and pulled her between two parked cars. The car charged forward once more, slamming into the vehicles we were hiding behind. Every car alarm in the lot was activated by the violent crash. People were yelling, running toward us with their phones out.
And then, as if time had stopped, the driver’s door opened. It was Carolyn.
She got out of the car as if she were going to a dinner party, wearing the same blazer she used to wear to work, but with a crazy expression in her eyes I had never seen before. This was my soon-to-be ex-wife, who had apparently been monitoring us and decided that if she couldn’t have me, she’d rather see me dead. This wasn’t just some drunk driver; she had intentionally targeted Emma, an innocent woman whose only crime was making me happy again.
When she started to approach us, her heels clicking on the pavement, I honestly believed she was going to try and finish what the car couldn’t. Thankfully, a man who looked like a linebacker seized her before she could get to us.
The police arrived, sirens blaring. As they were handcuffing her, Carolyn lost all mental faculties. “It’s only been a year and you’re already walking around with that!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, as if she were the victim. I felt as though I was in a distorted parallel universe. My wife, who used to make me breakfast on Sundays, had just attempted to kill two people in cold blood. And the most absurd part? She genuinely seemed to think she had a right to do it.
Justice
Every time I visited Emma in the hospital, I expected her to tell me it was over. Who could blame her? Most people don’t sign up for this kind of baggage. When I told her who the driver was, I couldn’t look her in the eye.
“Well,” Emma said, reaching for my hand, “at least we know she’ll have plenty of time to work on her road rage in prison.” This woman, lying in a hospital bed with pins in her leg because of my ex-wife, was trying to comfort me. “Do you really think I’m going to let her win?” she asked. “I’m going to walk again, absolutely fine, and she’s going to prison. I think I’m the one who’s going to win this.”
The District Attorney’s office was obsessed with this case. The entire event was captured in stunning high-definition by multiple security cameras. The video was terrifying. It showed Carolyn circling the parking lot, like a shark searching for prey. She then parked and watched us. This, the DA explained, demonstrated premeditation. She had tracked us, waited for the right opportunity, and then made a conscious attempt to kill Emma. The most bizarre part? The video showed her checking her makeup in the rearview mirror just before she floored it.
The trial was a master lesson in the art of incarceration. There were the security cameras, a parade of witnesses, and Emma, looking amazing on the stand even with her leg in a cast, recounting the experience without crying.
The verdict was guilty on all counts: attempted murder, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and reckless endangerment. The sentence, however, was frustrating: 12 years. With good behavior, she could be out much sooner. The judge bought her “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking clearly” charade. But at least it was 12 years without having to look over our shoulders in parking lots.
Following the criminal trial, the divorce proceedings became quite straightforward. A murder attempt can significantly alter a judge’s viewpoint on alimony. Carolyn, looking amazing in her orange jumpsuit, had to attend via video link from prison. The judge quickly put an end to her lawyer’s attempts to fight for my assets. “The court is not in the business of rewarding attempted murderers with alimony,” the judge stated. Carolyn received exactly what she had before the marriage: her personal belongings, her clothing, and her jail commissary account. Nothing more.
Emma is now completely recovered; it’s hardly noticeable that her leg was ever fractured. We found a fantastic new place, and the bedroom isn’t haunted by the ghost of my cheating ex-wife. We’re discussing getting married next spring.
I can say I’m truly happy now. Sometimes insanity doesn’t raise a giant red flag; sometimes it lies dormant until it tries to run over your new girlfriend in a mall parking lot. If you’re going through a divorce, document everything, be on your guard, and maybe stay away from mall parking lots.