I tossed Daniel and our old, sagging mattress after his affair—then watched him show up in a panic demanding, “Where is it?” The way he fixated on the bed rattled me more than his cheating ever did.
At dawn I drove to the dump, dragged the mattress out, and slit it open. Inside: bundles of cash—tens of thousands—stuffed where I’d begged for a replacement while he told me we were “broke.”
He came back raging; I met him on the porch with a stack in my hand. His story shifted from lies to “it was for our future.” I told him the future didn’t include him—and the money was staying with me.
Door locked. Voice steady. Power reclaimed. That mattress had held his betrayal, but it delivered the truth—and my freedom.
