After years of a strained marriage, filled with arguments and Mike’s obsession with material wealth, I gave him exactly what he wanted in the divorce: the house, the car, the money—everything. To him, it was a victory. To me, it was all part of my plan. Little did Mike know, he’d soon discover there was more to this “win” than he realized.

Walking out of the lawyer’s office, I kept a blank expression, shoulders slumped as if I were the broken ex-wife he expected. Outside, the rain matched the defeated image I wanted to project. But as soon as I reached the empty elevator, a giggle bubbled up from deep inside. By the time the doors closed, I was cackling. My plan had worked flawlessly, and I couldn’t wait for the final piece to fall into place.

Just weeks earlier, things had started to unravel. Our marriage had long been on the rocks, but Mike was more in love with his image than with anything else. He wanted the biggest house, the flashiest cars, designer everything—it was all a show. I had grown tired of playing the part, of living in a world where appearance mattered more than happiness. When the arguments escalated, I knew it was only a matter of time before we’d separate. And I also knew exactly how to handle it.

The night he came home late and announced he wanted a divorce, I had been waiting. Sitting in the kitchen, I barely looked up from my phone when he said, “We need to talk.” He slammed his keys on the counter, and, as usual, I was his target for the day’s frustrations.

“I want a divorce,” he finally said, voice tight with forced control. I met his gaze with a calm nod.

“Okay,” I replied, surprising him. He expected resistance, perhaps tears. But I’d already given him enough rope to hang himself.

In the conference room during our divorce negotiations, he read off his list of demands, a smug grin on his face. The house, the car, all of our savings—he wanted it all, and he expected me to fight. Instead, I nodded and told him he could have everything he wanted. My lawyer shot me a confused glance, but I simply confirmed, “Yes, let him have it.”

“Wait,” Mike stammered, taken aback. “You… you don’t want the house? The money?”

“Nope,” I said, leaning back. “It’s all yours.” His shock melted into pure glee, and he practically bounced out of the office, convinced he’d won. That was the best part—he hadn’t a clue.

@untold.storyy The Divorce! Part 1! #anonymous #anonymousstories #storytelling #storytime #premstories #husbandwife #tiktokstories #tiktokstoryteller ♬ Documentary Music – Dian Fadli

Later, in the elevator, as I finally let my laughter out, I knew my plan was coming together perfectly. As I stepped out, I pulled out my phone, typing a quick message to my mom: I’m heading to the house to pack up my things. I’ll call you when it’s time to make your move.

Packing the house was easier than I thought. I only wanted a few personal things—memories untainted by Mike’s presence. The house had always felt more like his than ours. Just as I finished taping the last box, I picked up my phone and called my mom. “It’s time,” I said.

My mom, Barbara, had never liked Mike. She’d seen through his shallow facade from the start. The best part? She had helped us buy the house and, thanks to a little-known clause in the mortgage agreement, she still held partial rights to the property. Now, she was about to move in and make Mike’s life a bit more interesting.

The next morning, as I unpacked in my new apartment, my phone buzzed. Mike’s name flashed on the screen. I answered sweetly, “Hello?”

“You set me up!” he barked, practically seething. I put him on speaker, stifling a grin.

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about?”

“Your mother!” he spat. “She’s in the house! She’s taken over everything!”

“Oh, right,” I replied, biting back laughter. “Remember that agreement we signed when she helped with the down payment? The one that lets her live there whenever she wants?” I could hear him fumbling as the reality sank in. He had been too excited about his new trophy house to read the fine print.

“You… you tricked me! This isn’t over. I’m getting my lawyers—”

Before he could finish, I heard Mom’s voice in the background, clear and authoritative. “Michael, get your feet off that coffee table! And stop hogging the remote!”

I could imagine his face turning red as he whispered, “Barbara, this is my house—”

“Oh, hush,” she cut him off. “I have every right to be here, and another thing, I’m not living off these cheap snacks. Where’s the fresh produce? Frozen dinners? Really?”

He mumbled something, but before he could regain control of the situation, she started in again. “And turn down that TV! If you’re going to watch those ridiculous car shows, at least mute it!”

The call clicked off, and I could only imagine the chaos unfolding in my former home. I leaned back, savoring my newfound freedom and the sweet victory of my carefully crafted plan.

For years, Mike had been so obsessed with “winning” that he missed the setup entirely. Now, he could have everything he ever wanted—the house, the car, the show. But he also had my mom as his new roommate, ensuring his life would never be as comfortable as he’d dreamed. For me, the divorce wasn’t a loss but a carefully orchestrated escape, one that let me walk away with exactly what I wanted: my freedom.

As I sat in my cozy new kitchen, I realized that the satisfaction of my plan had been worth every moment.