It was a normal Tuesday morning. I was in my robe, a chaotic symphony of tiny humans swirling around me as I navigated the breakfast routine. Four little ones, each with their own demands and dramas, vying for my attention. I finally managed to get them all fed, dressed, and (mostly) presentable for school. As I shepherded them towards the door, the doorbell rang. Annoyed at the interruption but accustomed to unexpected deliveries and neighborhood kids, I opened it, still half-asleep and wholly unprepared for the scene that awaited me. Standing on my porch was a vision of polished elegance. A young woman, impeccably dressed and radiating an air of smug confidence, surveyed my disheveled state with thinly veiled amusement. I had never seen her before in my life. Before I could even formulate a greeting, she delivered her pronouncement: “I’M ETHAN’S FIANCÉE. I CAME TO SEE THE HOUSE WE’RE MOVING INTO!”
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My mind blanked. Ethan’s fiancée? Moving into *my* house? I blinked, trying to reconcile the image before me with the reality I knew. Ethan was *my* fiancé, and we were very much together. What on earth was going on? “Excuse me? What do you mean, moving into?” I managed to stammer out, my voice betraying my confusion and mounting alarm.
The woman’s smile widened, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Oh, it’s simple, Miranda. That *is* your name, right?” she said, dripping with condescension. I numbly nodded, the ground feeling increasingly unstable beneath my feet. She continued, her voice smooth and calculated: “Well, Miranda, after the divorce, you legally got the car as part of the shared assets and fair alimony. And the house… well, my dear Ethan decided I deserved this place.”
I was reeling. Divorce? Alimony? My head spun, trying to grasp the impossible scenario she was painting. I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out. I was paralyzed by the sheer audacity of her words, the cold, hard certainty in her voice. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be some sort of elaborate, cruel joke. **Ethan would never do this to me…would he?**
She continued, oblivious to my internal turmoil, outlining her plans for the house, describing the renovations she intended to make, and casually referring to “their” future together within its walls. Every word was a dagger twisting in my heart, confirming my worst fears. My hands trembled as I gripped the doorframe, struggling to maintain my composure in front of this stranger who claimed to be my fiancé’s future wife.
I finally found my voice, a shaky whisper that barely carried in the morning air. “There is no divorce. Ethan is *my* fiancé,” I managed to say, desperately clinging to the truth I knew. Her laughter was cold and dismissive. That’s when I knew for sure that [“SOMEONE IS GOING TO JAIL!”]
