Imagine walking into your house after a long day, dreaming about nothing but rest, only to find your husband’s ex-wife standing in your living room like she owned the place. That’s what happened to me. And let me tell you, Melissa wasn’t just there for a friendly visit. What she was doing went far beyond anything I ever imagined.
You know that feeling when you drag yourself home after meetings, deadlines, and endless stress? All you want is a hot shower, clean pajamas, and to curl up in bed. For me, it was also a cup of coffee and the next episode of my true-crime documentary. I was ready to binge episode three that night. But the second I opened the door, my entire plan vanished.
I stepped inside, hung up my car keys, and was about to head to my room when something strange caught my attention. For a moment, I thought I was losing my mind.
The couch? Gone. The rug? Missing. The bookshelf? Vanished.
I froze. My eyes darted around. The coat closet was empty. The coffee machine—my lifeline—was gone. Even the dining table had disappeared!
My heart raced. What the heck is happening?
And then, one thought hit me. Where’s Roger?
My husband usually came home before me. But the house was eerily quiet—until I heard it. His voice. He was arguing with someone. A woman.
The sound came from the end of the hallway—our living room. I dropped my bag on the kitchen island and marched down the hall, my pulse thundering in my ears.
I pushed open the door—and froze in shock.
There was Roger. And standing beside him, bold as daylight, was Melissa—his ex-wife. The same Melissa he had sworn he’d never see again. The same woman he once called “a filthy rich spoiled brat.”
I felt like my chest was about to explode.
“Roger?” I said, my voice trembling. “What… what happened to our house?”
Roger turned to me, pale. “Oh, Liz, you’re here?” he asked like he wasn’t expecting me.
“Yeah, I just got back,” I snapped. My eyes flicked to Melissa. “What is she doing here?”
“I’ll explain everything,” Roger stuttered. “I’ll fix it, I swear.”
Melissa smirked, enjoying every second of my confusion. I was seconds away from thinking they were having an affair—until she opened her mouth.
“No, you won’t,” she cut in sharply, glaring at Roger. “Didn’t you tell her that everything you owned is mine?”
Roger stammered, “I… I…”
Melissa turned her eyes on me with a wicked smile. “Well, honey, all of this furniture belongs to me. Your husband and I bought it when we were married. I’m simply taking back what’s mine.”
My jaw nearly hit the floor. She was standing in my house, stripping it bare, and acting like it was completely normal.
“And you’re letting her take everything?” I demanded, staring at Roger. “You didn’t even try to stop her? And why didn’t you tell me she was coming? You knew, didn’t you?”
Roger lowered his gaze, shame written all over his face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Seriously, Roger? That’s it?” I rolled my eyes, furious. “I never thought you’d let your ex walk out with our whole life. This is ridiculous!”
Melissa burst out laughing. “Ridiculous? Oh, sweetie, technically everything in this house belongs to me. Even the bed you two share. I paid for it all, so I have every right to take it.”
Her arrogance was unbearable. I wanted to scream, to throw every humiliating secret Roger had ever told me about her right back in her face. But I held back. I wasn’t going to stoop to her level.
Instead, I studied her. Melissa was rich—so rich she could easily buy all-new furniture ten times over. Yet here she was, dragging away old couches and second-hand coffee machines. It wasn’t about the stuff. It was about humiliating me.
I clenched my fists. “Fine,” I spat. “Take it. Take everything you think is yours. But don’t you ever contact me or my husband again!”
Melissa smirked like she had just won a grand prize. “Sure, honey,” she said, oozing fake sweetness.
I watched in silence as she called in a group of workers, who marched through the house like ants, carrying out our furniture piece by piece. I peeked outside and saw the moving truck in the backyard, already filled to the brim with our belongings.
Meanwhile, Roger stood frozen, his face pale, his hands shaking. He looked helpless, like a man watching his world fall apart.
And then, in that moment of anger, I came up with a plan.
The second Melissa stepped outside to check on the truck, I darted into the kitchen, yanked open the freezer, and pulled out a bag of frozen shrimp. I stuffed them in every place I could think of—the side table drawers, the living room chairs, inside the mattress, and even into the decorative pillows.
I grinned to myself. Let’s see how long you enjoy your precious furniture, Melissa.
When the last piece was loaded, Melissa gave one final satisfied glance around the room.
“I hope you’ve taken everything that’s YOURS,” I said coldly, arms crossed.
“Oh, I have,” she smirked. “Sorry for the inconvenience, darling.”
She strutted out, climbed into her shiny SUV, and drove off like a queen.
Roger collapsed on the floor, burying his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I didn’t know how to tell you. She called a few days ago, but I never thought she was serious. I never thought she’d actually do this.”
I sighed, sat down next to him, and rubbed his arm. “It’s alright, babe,” I said softly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t want to live in a house filled with furniture from your ex-wife anyway.”
At that moment, I could have screamed at him, blamed him, made him feel worse. But I knew Melissa’s goal was to break us apart. And I refused to give her that satisfaction.
“Instead of apologizing,” I said with a weak smile, “I want you to buy me new furniture. Everything I pick. We’ll make this house ours again.”
Roger looked at me with tears still in his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll do that,” he whispered. “I’ll buy you every piece you want. I promise.”
I squeezed his hand. “I love you, Roger. We’ll get through this together.”
That night, as we lay on the empty bedroom floor, I realized something important. Our home wasn’t about the furniture. It was about us.
But the story doesn’t end there.
A few days later, I was scrolling through Facebook when I stumbled on a post in one of the local groups. My jaw dropped when I saw the name.
It was Melissa.
Her post read:
“HELP NEEDED URGENTLY! Does anyone know how to get rid of a horrible, rotting meat smell in furniture? I recently moved some old furniture into a storage unit, and within days, it started smelling like something died inside. I’ve tried everything—airing it out, deep cleaning, baking soda, but nothing works! The smell is unbearable. Please help, I’m losing my mind here!”
I burst out laughing so hard I nearly spilled my coffee. All her money, all her arrogance, and she was defeated by a few pieces of shrimp.
Revenge, as they say, is best served cold.
And mine smelled absolutely rotten.