When Jeremy and I got married, we agreed to split everything 50/50 — including rent. He found the apartment, told me the rent was $2,000 a month, and every month I handed him my $1,000 share. He said he’d forward it to the landlord.
For two years, I believed everything was normal.
Until one December evening.
I got stuck in the elevator with one of my neighbors. We chatted casually until she said something that made my stomach drop:
“Oh, you live in Mrs. Lorrie and Jeremy’s apartment, right?”
Mrs. Lorrie. As in Jeremy’s mother.
I was confused and asked her what she meant. Completely unaware of the bomb she had just dropped, she smiled and explained:
“Yeah! Jeremy’s mom bought that apartment years ago. She rented it out for a while, then he moved in with his ex… and now you two live there!”
My blood ran cold.
I wasn’t paying rent to some landlord. I had been handing over my money to Jeremy and his mom.
For two years, I had unknowingly paid them $24,000.
I barely made it inside the apartment before the rage hit me. But I didn’t lose it.
No. I called Jeremy instead — sweet as sugar.
— “Hey, babe… when’s rent due again?”
— “December 28,” he replied, like it was just any other day.
Perfect.
For the next two weeks, I acted completely normal — laughed at his jokes, made dinner, played the role.
On the 27th, I even handed him another $1,000, just like always.
But behind the scenes, I was planning my revenge.
Step Two — December 28: Execution Day
That morning, Jeremy kissed me goodbye and left like usual.
I waited exactly ten minutes.
Then I got to work.
First, I packed every single thing I owned — clothes, shoes, the furniture I bought, even the coffee maker he adored.
Then I went to the bank.
We had a joint account where my paycheck had been deposited every month. So, just like he’d been stealing from me all this time, I returned the favor.
I emptied it.
I had already signed the lease for my new apartment — small but cozy. I used Jeremy’s money to pay the first month’s rent.
And then came step three: the grand finale.
By the time Jeremy got home, the apartment was empty.
Except for one thing: a letter.
After leaving the letter, I shut off my phone and drove straight to my new place — the home where I’d start over, and where I’d be when I filed for divorce.
The Confrontation
A week later, I ran into Jeremy’s mom, Lorrie, at the grocery store. She looked like she had aged a decade.
— “Nancy… please, let me explain—”
— “Explain what, Lorrie? That you and your son stole $24,000 from me? That you sat across from me at Sunday dinners asking when I’d give you grandkids — while robbing me blind?”
— “We were going to tell you…”
— “When? After the baby shower? After I’d paid another year of your mortgage?”
Her face crumpled.
— “Jeremy’s devastated. He’s drinking, losing weight…”
— “Funny how karma works, isn’t it?”
I leaned in and smiled:
— “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to let me finish my shopping. Then you’re going to go home and tell your son that if he doesn’t agree to my divorce terms — including full repayment of every dollar I paid in ‘rent’ — I’ll be filing fraud charges against both of you.”
— “You wouldn’t…”
— “Try me.”
And as I walked away, I added:
— “Oh, and that butterscotch pie you loved so much? Let’s just say… it had a special ingredient. And it wasn’t love.”
Three Months Later
Three months later, I was sitting in my new apartment, holding my freshly signed divorce papers.
Jeremy had agreed to everything — full repayment plus interest.
My phone buzzed with a text from my friend Taylor:
“Saw your ex today. He looked miserable. Lorrie’s selling her unit and moving to Florida. Building meetings won’t be the same without her drama!”
I smiled, raising a glass to my reflection in the window.
Jeremy called me 27 times that night. I didn’t answer.
His mother tried too. Blocked.
Then came the messages from friends, warning me that Jeremy was spiraling — telling everyone I had “taken HIS money.”
The irony? Almost poetic.
Do I feel guilty?
Not even a little.
For two years, I was nothing but a pawn in their game. For two years, they took from me without shame.
Ladies, when something feels off, trust that feeling. And if a man thinks he can outsmart you — outplay him.
Because in the end, con artists always get what they deserve.
And I made sure Jeremy and his mother got exactly that.
Call it revenge.
I call it justice.