Getting an email from my ex-husband’s new wife was the last thing I expected. Especially one with a bill attached. The list of “expenses caused by me” left me staring at my screen in disbelief. Was this woman serious?
Apparently, she was. But there was no way I was letting this nonsense slide without a response.
Matt and I had been divorced for two years. Life had moved on—or so I thought.
That was until his new wife, Stephanie, decided I owed her money. For what, you ask? Oh, just for “fixing” everything she thought I had ruined in Matt’s life.
Spoiler alert: I wasn’t paying a cent.
But I did send her a response she’d never forget.
Life After Divorce
Ever since Matt and I parted ways, I’d been enjoying my freedom. I loved my little house, my cozy routine, and most of all, my peace of mind. It was refreshing to wake up and not have to clean up after someone else.
Looking back, I should have realized things with Matt were doomed from the start. We were opposites in all the wrong ways. I wanted a partner; he wanted a caretaker.
When we first met, he seemed perfect. Stable job, charming smile, and a responsible attitude—or so I thought.
Our dating days were a dream. Romantic dinners, sweet texts, surprise gifts. He had me fooled.
Then we got married. And reality hit me like a brick wall.
The first sign? His wet towel on the floor.
At first, I laughed it off. “Hey, Matt, don’t forget your towel,” I said, picking it up.
“Oops, sorry, babe,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Won’t happen again.”
It happened again. And again. And again.
Soon, it wasn’t just towels. Dirty dishes piled up. Clothes scattered everywhere. Half-finished projects cluttering every corner. I’d remind him, he’d apologize, and nothing would change.
I remember sitting on the couch one night, watching him play video games, and thinking, Is this my life now?
Then he lost his job. Fired for missing deadlines and skipping meetings.
“They were too strict anyway,” he shrugged. “I’ll find something better.”
Spoiler: He didn’t.
Instead, he dabbled in random side gigs that made no real money. Meanwhile, I was the one paying the bills, cooking, cleaning, and, honestly, running his entire life. I scheduled his appointments, reminded him to call his mom, even rewrote his resume because he “didn’t feel like it.”
One night, at 2 AM, after cleaning yet another mess, I found myself Googling: How to encourage a grown man to be responsible? That’s when it hit me.
I wasn’t his wife. I was his mother.
Enter Stephanie
Our divorce was civil. We split our stuff, signed the papers, and went our separate ways. Or so I thought.
Matt moved on quickly. Married Stephanie last summer. And let me tell you—Stephanie was a character.
She was one of those women who posted daily “Queen Energy” quotes on Instagram. The type who talked about self-love and empowerment but used it as an excuse to be petty.
I didn’t think much about her until I got a wedding invitation in the mail. Odd, considering I hadn’t spoken to Matt since our divorce.
I RSVP’d no. Obviously.
But Stephanie wasn’t done.
A week before the wedding, she called me. I almost didn’t answer, but curiosity won.
“Hi, Emma! It’s Stephanie,” she chirped. “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“Uh… no?” I said, confused. “What’s up?”
“Well, I wanted to ask a favor. Since you were such a big part of Matt’s life, I thought it would be nice to include some photos of you two in our wedding slideshow! You know, to show his ‘journey in love.’”
I nearly dropped the phone. “I’m sorry… what?”
“Oh, and if you could share details about his favorite meals, hobbies, and interests, that would really help me personalize my vows!”
Was this woman for real?
“Yeah… no,” I said. “But best of luck with your wedding.”
I should’ve blocked her then. But the drama was too entertaining.
The wedding? A train wreck.
I didn’t attend, but friends filled me in.
The maid of honor’s speech? A passive-aggressive dig at me.
“Matt’s finally found a real partner,” she toasted.
The slideshow? A cringeworthy “before and after” transformation of Matt’s life. Before: dull and gray. After: vibrant and happy.
Embarrassing. For her.
I thought that was the end of it.
Until the email.
The Invoice
Subject: Invoice for Outstanding Expenses.
I opened it. My jaw hit the floor.
Stephanie had sent me an actual bill. With a spreadsheet. Detailing costs I supposedly owed her for “damages” I caused during my marriage to Matt.
Some highlights:
- $300 for Matt’s eye doctor appointment: “Because you didn’t notice his vision was deteriorating.”
- $2,500 for a new wardrobe: “Because his clothes were outdated—a reflection of neglect.”
- $200 for therapy: “To undo the emotional damage from your lack of support.”
- $500 for a fitness coach: “To rebuild his self-esteem after years of being ignored.”
- $1,000 for a new mattress: “Because yours gave him back pain.”
- $100 for a meal planning course: “Because he only learned to eat properly after meeting me.”
Total: $5,600.
She ended with: As his wife, I’ve invested heavily in fixing him. It’s only fair you contribute.
I stared at the screen. Was this a joke?
I wasn’t paying. But I was going to have some fun.
The Response
Subject: Response to Invoice for Outstanding Expenses.
Dear Stephanie,
Thank you for your detailed email. I must say, it gave me quite the laugh! However, you missed a few expenses on my end.
- $10,000 for running all household responsibilities while Matt played video games.
- $15,000 for emotional labor, including reminding him to call his mom, go to the dentist, and pay his bills.
- $5,000 for lost brain cells from listening to his business ideas—like his failed app that matched people by their favorite pizza toppings.
Total: $30,000. Payable in full by next Friday.
Warm regards, Your Predecessor.
I CC’d a few mutual friends for fun.
Within hours, my phone blew up.
“Emma, this is legendary.”
“I’m framing this.”
Stephanie freaked out. She tried explaining herself, but the more she talked, the worse she sounded.
Then Matt called me.
“Emma… I had no idea she did that,” he sighed. “I’m sorry.”
His first-ever apology.
“Matt,” I said, “it’s fine. Just make sure you pay that invoice.”
A few weeks later, at a party, someone asked Matt if he ever paid me back for my “emotional labor.”
He turned red and left early.
Now, whenever Stephanie’s name comes up, someone inevitably says, “Oh, you mean the one with the bill?”
And honestly? I regret nothing.
