My husband abandoned our baby and me at the airport, choosing to take our family vacation solo. Little did he know, his “relaxing” trip was about to turn into a nightmare — and his return home would be even more dreadful.
I stood there in the airport, holding Sophia as she wailed. My arms ached, and I could feel a headache coming on. Where the heck was Ryan?
I bounced Sophia gently, trying to soothe her. “Shh, baby girl. It’s okay. Daddy will be back soon.”
But he wasn’t. I checked my phone and saw a new message. It was a selfie of Ryan, grinning like an idiot on the plane.
“I couldn’t wait more as I really needed this vacation. I work so hard. Come with the next flight,” the caption read.
My jaw dropped. He’d left us? Just like that?
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, staring at the screen in disbelief.
Sophia’s cries grew louder, as if she sensed my distress. I hugged her close, my mind racing.
“It’s okay, sweetie. We’re going home,” I said, more to myself than to her.
The cab ride home was a blur. I kept replaying Ryan’s message in my head, each time feeling a new wave of anger wash over me.
As soon as we got home, I put Sophia down for a nap and grabbed my phone. My fingers hovered over Ryan’s number, but I stopped myself. No, I needed a plan first.
I paced the living room, ideas swirling in my head. Then it hit me — the perfect revenge.
With a grim smile, I dialed the number for Ryan’s hotel.
“Hello, Sunset Resort. How may I assist you?” a cheerful voice answered.
“Hi, I’m calling about my husband’s reservation. Ryan C —?”
After explaining the situation, the receptionist was more than happy to help. “We understand, ma’am. What did you have in mind?”
I outlined my plan, feeling a sense of satisfaction grow with each detail.
“Wake-up calls at 3 AM, 5 AM, and 7 AM? Certainly. Unexpected room service? No problem. And you’d like us to book him for every possible tour? Consider it done.”
I hung up, feeling guilty by excited. But I wasn’t done yet.
I marched into our bedroom and started packing up Ryan’s prized possessions — his gaming console, vintage records, and designer suits.
“If he wants a solo vacation, he can have a solo life,” I muttered, lugging the boxes to my car.
At the storage facility, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I was, a new mom, stuffing my husband’s things into a locker like some scorned teenager.
Back home, I called a locksmith. “How soon can you come? It’s urgent.”
While waiting for the locksmith, I checked my phone. Ryan had sent more pictures — him on the beach, at a fancy restaurant, sightseeing. But with each photo, he looked increasingly tired and annoyed.
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