I bumped into my ex-husband at the clinic, a place I hadn’t frequented since our failed attempts at starting a family. The air crackled with unspoken resentments, a familiar tension that had defined the last years of our marriage. He approached me with a smug grin plastered across his face, the kind of expression that hinted at a victory he couldn’t wait to unveil. “MY NEW WIFE ALREADY GAVE ME TWO KIDS-SOMETHING YOU COULDN’T DO FOR 10 YEARS!” he sneered, his voice dripping with a mixture of triumph and thinly veiled malice. His words stung, a cruel reminder of the years we spent in agonizing infertility treatments, the countless disappointments, and the eventual disintegration of our relationship under the weight of our unfulfilled dreams. He always subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, implied that I was the reason we couldn’t have children. That I was somehow defective, inadequate as a woman. Seeing him now, radiating happiness with his new family, felt like a fresh wound being torn open. I struggled to maintain my composure, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
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Then, as if on cue, a very pregnant woman stepped up behind him, her belly a blatant symbol of his newfound virility. “THIS IS LIZA, MY WIFE! WE’RE EXPECTING OUR THIRD!” he proclaimed, his eyes practically screaming that he wanted to shatter me with the news. He wanted me to crumble, to witness my devastation and revel in his perceived triumph. But I wouldn’t give him that. I wouldn’t let him see the pain he inflicted. I took a deep breath and prepared to face him head-on, determined to maintain my dignity and show him that I was not broken.
Just then, as if scripted by fate, my husband came over, carrying a bottle of water. He saw the discomfort etched on my face and immediately stepped in, his presence a comforting shield against the storm brewing between me and my ex. “Honey, who is this?” he asked, his voice a gentle contrast to the harshness of my ex’s tone. I looked at my husband, a wave of gratitude washing over me. He was my rock, my support, the man who had helped me heal from the wounds of my past and build a new, brighter future.
A slow smile spread across my face as I realized that the perfect opportunity for a comeback had presented itself. It was time to turn the tables, to shatter my ex’s smug facade and show him that I was not the same woman he had left behind. Knowing my next words would crush him, I said, with a calmness that surprised even myself, “Here’s my ex and his…” I paused for dramatic effect, savoring the anticipation in the air.
The moment stretched, thick with tension. My ex-husband stood there, his confident smirk wavering, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. He had expected me to be defeated, humiliated, but instead, he saw a woman standing tall, radiating strength and confidence. A woman who was clearly loved and cherished by her husband. A woman who was about to deliver a blow that would leave him reeling.
“…and his VERY pregnant wife,” I finished, my voice laced with a subtle sweetness that belied the venom behind my words. But before he could utter a word my husband chimed in, “And I’m her husband.” He gave my ex a look of disdain. “And you must be the reason she can’t stand you.” I smiled, knowing my next words would crush my ex-and they did. He suddenly looked small, like a lost child. He looked crestfallen when I added, “Oh, and we’re also here for our IVF appointment…we are expecting twins!” I hugged my husband tighter. My ex’s jaw hit the floor. I walked away knowing I had finally won. I guess karma is a dish best served pregnant!
