The wrapped box felt heavy in my hands—my 35th birthday gift from Greg. Confetti rained as I opened it, only to find a scale. “Time to face the numbers!” he laughed, oblivious to my crumbling smile. Later, I sobbed in the bathroom, replaying his joke. But that moment sparked a fire I didn’t know I had.
I started small: walks at dawn, swapping snacks, and awkward yoga sessions where I cursed more than stretched. My kids giggled at my “funny mom” poses, but I kept going. Eventually, gym sessions replaced pantry raids, and muscles replaced insecurities. When friends gasped, “You’re glowing!” I finally believed them.
Greg noticed too—once I’d lost 40 pounds. “My little push worked!” he gloated, as if my sweat and tears were his doing. His newfound compliments felt hollow, like he’d traded mockery for ownership.
So, on his birthday, I mirrored his “thoughtfulness.” His eyes lit at the familiar glittering box—until he saw divorce papers. “You measured my worth in pounds,” I said. “Now I’m weighing out of this marriage.” Walking away, I realized the best revenge wasn’t the papers—it was my unshakable pride.
