A $9.99 cleaning gadget replaced ten years of marriage. My spouse gave me a mop on our anniversary. The room became silent but for his sister’s hysterical laughter. Karma visited them both that night, taking humiliation seriously.
Our 10th anniversary was celebrated with a magnificent celebration by my husband Derek. He termed it “a celebration of love.” Performance, I said. I stood there with a champagne flute, a phony grin on my face and fear in my gut.
Rachel, adorable! He saw his sister Trina glide across the room like she owned it. Derek gave her a diamond-studded bracelet last month, which gleamed beneath the chandeliers.
“Isn’t this party great? Derek went all out!”
I smiled wider. “It’s… beautiful,” I lied, clenching my teeth.
Trina leaned forward, pricey bubbly in her breath. I can’t wait to see what he bought you. It must be fantastic to top this baby, she remarked, shaking her wrist to relight the bracelet.
Derek shouted above the throng before I could respond. “Everyone! May I have your attention?
My pulse pounded as he approached with a large, gift-wrapped package. Is that it? Something meaningful?
“Happy anniversary, Rachel dear!” saying with a smile.
Shaking, I opened the paper and raised the lid. Silence replaced the hubbub around us.
Inside was a mop. White. Plastic. Keeping its store shelf scent.
I briefly believed it was a joke. Trina then laughed loudly and uninhibited.
“Oh, Derek! Very funny! A great housekeeping present!
I grasped the mop handle, plastic cutting into my palm. “Is this a joke?” I shakily asked.
“Relax,” Derek laughed. “The real gift’s later.”
But his eyes revealed him. No later. He now regarded me as a valuable, replaceable live-in maid.
“What is the real gift, Derek?” I demanded.
He stammered, “It’s… a surprise.”
Trina was almost shrieking. Rachel, stop pouting! At least you have the correct tool!”
Suddenly, I snapped. Ten years of being ignored, unheard, and unloved sparked a cold, controlled wrath.
I left the ballroom despite Derek’s calls. The driveway lights illuminated his red sports vehicle, his pride and pleasure, which he loved more than our marriage.
He yelled “Rachel!” You’re doing what?
I remained silent. I hit the windshield with the mop. Footsteps broke glass like ice. I heard gasps behind me.
Derek ran, face ghost-white. “What the hell?”
Tossed the shattered mop at his feet. “Happy anniversary, Derek. I hope you like your present as much as I did.”
The celebration was freezing inside. Replaced laughter with whispers. Trina stopped talking.
I slammed the door to our bedroom in a rage, shivering. When did this happen?
I ran to the window after a loud crash. Catching my breath.
A costly concrete planter in Derek’s landscaping had toppled over his automobile. Tin can-like hood collapsed. The devastation was terrible.
I laughed. Karma arrived quickly and poetically.
But it was unfinished.
I heard Trina shouting into her phone downstairs. I crept down the stairs curious.
“My account’s frozen?!” She screamed. “My money! I need access now!”
She ambled like a captive. “You don’t understand—I have investors waiting! You can’t hurt me!”
Derek stood pale and quiet across the room. I nearly felt awful. Almost.
Just then, our old buddy Joanne softly approached me.
“Rachel,” she murmured. “You should know.”
I turned. What’s it?
I overheard Derek last week… He sees a divorce attorney. His documents are drawn up.”
The air around me thickened. My stomach flipped.
So it was the mop. Not simply cruel. It was symbolic. A last gut strike before discarding me.
“Thanks, Joanne,” I answered calmly. Excuse me—I have some stuff to investigate.”
I sneaked into the home office while Derek complained to his insurer. I accessed our finances. I clicked through accounts with shaking hands.
And then I saw.
The home? On my behalf. He had me sign several paperwork years back while refinancing. I didn’t know what I signed.
The company? I owned 51%. Derek transferred the majority interest to me for “tax purposes,” figuring I would never investigate.
I smiled slowly. Man who felt I was helpless gave me dominion.
Next morning, I packed Derek’s stuff. He staggered into the doorway, disoriented and blurry.
He said, “What are you doing?”
Zipped his suitcase. “Packing for you.”
“This is mine.”
“My house,” I said. Also, my business. Funny how it works.”
He paled. Rachel, please wait… I didn’t intend this.”
I said, “No, you meant to blindside me. Humiliated. Leave clean. Guess what? Your calculation was wrong.”
It seems he wanted to weep.
Knocking on the door followed.
I found two suit-clad males inside. One asked, “Mrs. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“I’m FBI Agent Morales. We must interrogate Ms. Trina Blake.”
Derek froze.
“She’s under investigation for fraud and money laundering,” Agent Morales said. “We believe she funneled funds through your business.”
Raised eyebrow. “Well, as majority owner, I’ll gladly assist your investigation.”
Derek looked gut-punched.
“Oh,” I said, pushing his baggage outside, “don’t forget your mop. The disaster you’re going to face may need it.”
Joanne delivered wine that night.
“I thought you’d need a place to stay,” she added.
“Nope,” I smiled. Turns out, I’m not getting expelled.”
She lifted her glass. “To karma.”
“To power,” I smirked.
Later, at the doorway, I saw the mop in the corner as the wind rustled the bushes and the stars flash above me.
A inexpensive present. But it reminded me of something precious:
Never underestimate a pushed-too-far woman.
