I used to think leaving after an affair would be the hardest part. I was wrong. The hardest part came when I opened the bedroom door and found my husband, Chris, hunched over my dresses, scissors in hand, cutting them to pieces.
“If you’re leaving, I don’t want you looking pretty for another man,” he sneered.
I froze. Every silk, chiffon, and sequin I owned—memories of milestones, laughter, and late-night thrift-store finds—was destroyed. That was the moment I knew he wasn’t going to get the last word.
Clothes were never just clothes for me. The red wrap dress I wore the night Chris kissed me under fairground lights. The mint-green vintage piece my mom swore made me look like Audrey Hepburn. Even the ridiculous sequined shift I bought seven months postpartum—it all told my story.
Chris never understood. His late “church meetings,” constant buzzing phone, and one screen that lit up with: “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. xoxo” told me everything. When I confronted him, there was no denial. Just a cold shrug.
That was it. I filed for divorce, packed essentials, and moved in with my mom—leaving the dresses behind, thinking I’d return for them later.
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