The Night We Finally Called It Quits

Alright, let’s cut to the chase—the night it all ended.

It was around 10 PM. My ex still wasn’t home (big surprise), and I had just logged into a new game I downloaded at the recommendation of an online friend. You see, about six months earlier, I was deep into New World on Steam. If you’re a gamer, you know some bosses and quests require a team, and while I usually avoided group play (thanks to past experiences with toxic players), I really wanted to progress in the story. So, I reluctantly joined up with three random players—two female avatars and one male.

We hit it off. The teamwork was solid, and we ended up playing together for hours. No voice chat, just text, and after a successful run, we all added each other as friends. One of the “girls” and I played together the most, bonding over our shared sense of humor and stupid jokes.

Then, one night, mid-game banter, the bombshell dropped.

“Dude, I’m a guy.”

Wait, WHAT?! None of us had any clue. Not that it mattered—we were just playing a game. We laughed it off, confirmed our respective genders (probably should have used pronouns from the start), and moved on. It changed nothing, except maybe making his gameplay style make a little more sense.

Anyway, fast forward to that night. I was chilling in my pink fluffy bean bag chair, scrolling for a new mobile game. He suggested a survival game, and while no one else was into it, I figured, why not? So, there I was, gathering berries and wood, crafting tools, making food—basic survival game stuff—when my ex walked in.

He took one look at my phone and, without missing a beat, demanded, “Hand me the phone.”

“Excuse me?” I blinked up at him, annoyed. He had just waltzed in from a night out with friends and was now barking orders like I was a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner.

“I’m just playing a game,” I said, keeping my grip on my iPad as he tried to yank it from me. He pulled harder. The thing started bending. It was only a few months old. I was making payments on it.

“Let go or I’ll break it,” he growled at me.

Lovely.

I let go. He scrolled through menus, checking the chat, clearly searching for something incriminating. Then, he snatched my phone. I tried to stop him at first but quickly realized I didn’t care enough to fight over it. I had nothing to hide. So, whatever. Have fun.

For the next 30 minutes, he stood there, scrolling through my Discord messages, grilling me like I was on trial. 

"Who is this person?" I answered him. 

"Why are you hiding it?" I wasn’t. 

The more he interrogated me, the more I felt violated. So, I grabbed my iPad, logged in remotely, and signed out of all other devices. His access to my account vanished in an instant.

That’s when he lost it. He hurled my phone across the room, called me some choice names, and stormed out.

Now, let me give you some background. Over the past year, he’d developed a habit of getting off work and going out to eat—alone. At our restaurant. The little Mexican spot we used to go to together. One night, some people invited him to join their table. Among them? A married woman. Over time, their little dinner group shrank until it was mostly just the two of them. They added each other on Snapchat. Messaged late at night. Daily conversations. Made it home safe texts.

One Friday, he texted me saying he had no clue when he’d be home. A while later, he sent me a picture of the new Buc-ee’s that had just opened—two hours away. I later found out it wasn’t a group trip. It was just him and her. A date.

And yet, I was the one being accused of cheating. Classic projection. If he could pin something on me, he wouldn’t have to face his own guilt.

Later that night, after what I assume was a quick consultation with his mistress on Snapchat, he came back into my office.

“Are you happy?” he asked. “How long have you felt like this wasn’t working?”

I didn’t hold back. “A long time. After the cheating, the lies, the manipulation—the abuse—I forgave you more times than I should have. I’m over it. I don’t want to fix it anymore.”

“So… what are we doing?”

“What do you mean?”

Then he drops this gem: He had already gone to the courthouse to ask about divorce weeks ago.

Oh. So, this was premeditated.

“Would you fight it?” he asked.

“No.”

He laughed and walked out.

The next night, instead of going out with his friends, he came home—just to argue. He mentioned moving out, and I thought that was an excellent idea. Then he hit me with, “I still want to work on our marriage, but I think I should move out while we do.”

Sure, dude. Go right ahead.

He spent the night acting like I had destroyed our marriage. Excuse me? I was playing video games while he was out wining and dining another woman.

A few days later, he was weirdly excited to move out. I had my suspicions.

“Are you moving in with her?” I asked.

“…Yeah.”

Floored. Absolutely floored. Not only did I have to break the news to the kids that we were separating, but also that their dad was shacking up with someone else immediately. When I pointed out how bad that would look, he had a sudden change of heart—moved in with his mom instead. (But not before getting her a debit card linked to his account. Something he never did for me in all our years of marriage.)

Then came the hardest part—telling the kids.

I had receipts. I laid it all out.

What I didn’t expect? They had their own horror stories. They told me about things he had done to them behind my back. The things they suffered. I had stayed for stability, for a “steady home.” But in reality? They had been dealing with their own traumas.

If only I had left sooner.

Oh, and as a final goodbye gift? He gave me and our youngest COVID on Thanksgiving before moving out in December. Classic.

And that’s how it all ended. Not with a bang, but with a ridiculous amount of irony.