I never thought twice about my husband’s “man cave” in the basement. He spent hours down there, claiming he needed space to unwind. I respected it—until the night I heard a woman’s laughter drifting up the stairs.
He had told me he was out buying milk.
The signs had been there—lingering perfume, sudden late-night errands, extra showers. But denial is a powerful thing. Then, one evening, I saw movement in the basement window while he was supposedly gone. My stomach dropped.
I waited until his next “grocery run” and crept downstairs. That’s when I heard her voice. “She’s clueless,” the woman sneered. “How hasn’t she figured it out?”
Rage burned through me, but I didn’t confront them. Instead, I bought twenty live rats from a pet store. That night, while they were distracted, I released the rodents into the basement and locked the door behind me.
The next morning, my husband emerged—pale, disheveled, and furious. I handed him divorce papers I’d kept from our last fight. He stammered excuses, but I was done. Now, I live alone in a quiet house—no lies, no secrets, just peace. And the only laughter in my home? My own.
