A woman, exhausted and furious because her husband was late coming home

A woman, exhausted and furious because her husband was late coming home—again—paced around the house with steam practically rising from her ears. This wasn’t the first time. She had prepared dinner, lit candles, even changed into something nice… but he hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, and she was done.

In a fit of frustration, she scribbled a note and placed it on the dresser where he was sure to find it. It read:

“I’ve had enough. I’ve left you. Don’t bother coming after me.”

But she didn’t actually leave.

No. She had a plan.

With quiet determination, she tiptoed to the bedroom, lifted the bed skirt, and crawled under the bed, heart pounding with anticipation. She wanted to see his reaction—to witness his regret, his heartbreak. Maybe even hear him sob her name into the silence.

After about twenty minutes, the front door creaked open. Her ears perked up. She heard the familiar jingle of keys and the thud of shoes being kicked off. He was humming. Humming!

He moved casually into the kitchen, rummaged around for a bit, then strolled into the bedroom. She could see his feet pause in front of the dresser. There was silence. Then the rustle of the note being picked up. Another pause.

She held her breath.

A few moments passed, and then he chuckled—chuckled!—before grabbing a pen and scribbling something on the note. Still hidden under the bed, she clenched her fists. What was so funny?

Next, he pulled out his phone and made a call.

His voice was cheerful—lighter than it had been in weeks.
“She’s finally gone,” he said, laughing softly.
“Yeah, I know… about bloody time, huh?”
A pause.
“I’m coming over now. Put on that hot little French nightie I like.”
Another pause.
“Mmm… I love you. Can’t wait to see you. We’ll do all the naughty things you always beg for.”
He hung up, whistling, and within seconds, grabbed his keys and walked out the door.

She heard the engine start and the car back out of the driveway.

There was a long silence in the house.

Stunned, she lay motionless under the bed, her heart shattered, breath shallow, eyes welling up with tears. Anger rose in her chest. Her face burned with humiliation and betrayal. Finally, trembling, she crawled out from under the bed, her hands shaking as she reached for the note.

She read what he had written beneath her message:

“I can see your feet. We’re outta bread. Be back in 5 minutes.”

She stared at it.

Then stared some more.

And slowly—through the tears, the rage, and the realization of what had just happened—she let out a single, reluctant laugh.

That bastard.