My ex-husband once told me, “It’s just harmless fun.” That’s what he called his cheating. But when he ripped the wallpaper off my walls after our divorce, karma—oh, sweet, wicked karma—decided it was her turn to have fun. And she didn’t hold back.
Do you believe in karma? Honestly, I used to think it was just a comforting phrase people said after being hurt. You know, things like, “Don’t worry, karma will get them.” I’d nod politely and roll my eyes inside. Yeah, right.
But let me tell you, karma is real. And in my life? She has a twisted sense of humor.
Let me paint the picture. My ex-husband, Dan, and I were married for eight years. Eight years of what I thought was a solid life: a house we worked on together, two beautiful kids, and a life that wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.
Turns out, I was the only one who believed in “ours.” I should have seen the red flags earlier.
The night I discovered Dan’s infidelity is burned into my memory forever.
Our daughter, Emma, was sick with a fever. I was digging through Dan’s drawer for the children’s medicine—he always kept it there. Instead, I found his phone.
I wasn’t snooping, but a notification caught my eye: a heart emoji followed by “I love you!”
I froze, my heart sinking. Then, curiosity and disbelief overpowered me. I opened it—and there it was: dozens of intimate texts between Dan and a woman named Jessica.
“How could you?” I whispered, trembling, holding the phone like it was a dagger. “Eight years, Dan. Eight years! How could you cheat on me?”
He didn’t even flinch. “It just happened,” he said with a shrug, as if we were talking about the weather. “Some harmless fun with my secretary, Jessica. It won’t happen again. Never! I’m sorry. Trust me.”
“These things happen? No, Dan. They don’t just happen. You made choices. Every single time.”
The first time, I tried to rationalize it—so many of us do. I told myself it was a mistake, a lapse in judgment. I thought we could fix it. I told myself forgiveness was the strong thing to do.
But the second time? The second time shattered every illusion I had left.
“I thought we could work through this,” I said, holding up the proof—red lipstick on his collar. The irony? I hated red lipstick and never wore it.
“I thought you meant it when you said ‘never again.’”
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, bored. “That I’m sorry? Would that make you feel better?”
Something inside me snapped. “No! I want you to pack your bags.”
I didn’t waste a second. I filed for divorce before he could mumble another pathetic excuse.
The divorce itself was brutal. But the house? Not negotiable. It was mine, passed down from my grandmother long before Dan ever appeared.
“This is ridiculous!” Dan yelled during mediation. “I’ve lived here eight years! I’ve put money into it!”
“And it’s still my grandmother’s house,” I said calmly, watching him fume. “The deed’s in my name. It always has been.”
Legally, he had no argument. But he tried to split everything else 50/50—groceries, furniture, vacations—down to the last cent.
Then came the heartbreak. Custody discussions. He looked at our lawyer, deadpan: “She can have full custody. I don’t want the responsibility.”
Emma and Jack were in the next room. My babies. My heart shattered.
“They’re your children,” I hissed. “How can you just—”
“They’re better off with you anyway,” he interrupted. “You’ve always been better at all that nurturing stuff.”
After signing the papers, he asked for a week to pack. To “sort everything out.” I took the kids to my mom’s to spare them awkward encounters.
The night before leaving, Emma clutched her stuffed rabbit. “Mommy, why can’t Daddy come with us to Grandma’s?”
I held her tight, tears threatening. How do you explain to a six-year-old why family breaks?
“Sometimes, sweetheart, grown-ups need time apart to figure things out,” I said.
“But will he miss us?” Jack asked, his small voice trembling.
“Of course he will,” I lied, heart breaking again. “Of course he will.”
I thought that was the end. I was wrong.
When we returned a week later, the house looked like a crime scene.
The wallpaper—the beautiful floral wallpaper we’d chosen together—was gone. Jagged patches of drywall peeked through, like the house had been skinned alive.
And there he was. Dan. Ripping off another strip, like a man possessed.
“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.
“I bought this wallpaper. It’s mine,” he said, unfazed.
“Dan, you’re destroying the house your kids live in!”
“Mom?” Jack’s voice quivered. “Why is Dad doing that to our walls?”
“I loved the flowers! They were pretty! Why are you tearing the wallpaper, Daddy?” Emma cried.
I knelt beside them, shielding their little eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. We can pick new wallpaper together. Something even prettier. Want that?”
“But why is he taking it?” Emma sobbed.
I didn’t answer. I just gave Dan a look sharp enough to cut glass. He shrugged. “I paid for it. I have the right to destroy it!”
I took a deep breath, ushered the kids to the car, and left.
That evening, I returned. It was worse. The kitchen stripped bare—no toaster, no coffee maker. Even the toilet paper was gone.
“You’re unbelievable!” I muttered, shaking my head.
I refused to let him see that he got under my skin.
Months passed. Life began again. I joined a book club to meet friends and feel like myself. One night, after a few glasses of wine, I told the group about the wallpaper disaster.
“Wait, he took the toilet paper too?” Cassie laughed so hard she almost fell off her chair.
“Yes!” I laughed despite myself. “I can’t believe I married someone so ridiculous.”
“Girl,” Cassie said, tears in her eyes, “you dodged a bullet. Who rips wallpaper off walls?”
It was the first time I laughed about the whole mess.
Six months later, Dan called.
“Hey,” he said smugly. “I’m getting married next month. Found a gorgeous bombshell!”
“Congratulations,” I said evenly, then hung up.
I thought that was it. Until one day, downtown, I saw him. Holding hands with a woman. And my stomach dropped. It was Cassie. My friend from the book club.
“Oh my gosh, hey!” she said brightly. “This is my fiancé—”
I forced a smile. “Yeah, Dan. I know.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait… you know each other?”
Dan looked like he wanted to disappear.
“Oh, we go way back,” I said casually.
Cassie’s face turned. “Wait a second… that story about the wallpaper… that freaking guy… is that him?”
Dan panicked. “Cassie, it’s not—”
“It’s exactly what I think,” she snapped. “You ripped wallpaper off your kids’ home? Who does that?”
She turned to me, apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Nora. I had no idea.”
Then back to him. “You’re a walking red flag. I can’t believe I almost married you!”
She stormed off, leaving him dumbstruck, staring at the engagement ring she had just thrown at him.
I just smiled faintly. Karma had done her job.
That night, tucking in the kids, Jack said:
“Mom, remember when Dad took all the wallpaper?”
I braced myself.
“I’m glad we picked out the new ones together,” he said. “The dinosaurs in my room are way cooler than the old flowers. Daddy can keep that wallpaper to himself!”
Emma nodded. “And my butterflies! They’re the prettiest ever!”
Looking around at our new walls, filled with colors we chose together, I smiled. This was our story. Not Dan’s.
I learned something that day: sometimes, you don’t need revenge. Just give karma a little time. She’ll serve justice—with poetic irony.