Imagine coming home after a long day, ready to relax, only to find your husband and his ex-wife in your living room. That’s exactly what happened to me. And trust me, Melissa wasn’t just there for a chat. What she was doing was beyond anything I could’ve imagined.
You know that feeling after a long day of meetings and stress? All you want is to kick off your shoes, take a shower, slip into pajamas, grab a warm cup of coffee, and maybe binge-watch your favorite show. That’s all I was looking forward to two weeks ago. I had even been waiting to watch episode 3 of my true-crime documentary.
But the second I walked through that door, my whole evening—and my whole world—changed.
I opened the door, hung up my car keys like always, and started heading toward my room. That’s when something strange hit me. At first, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
The couch—gone. The rug—missing. Even the bookshelf had disappeared. I blinked a few times, thinking maybe I was just tired. But no. As I checked the hallway, the kitchen, the dining room, it all hit me. The coat closet? Empty. My coffee machine? Gone. The dining table? Nowhere in sight.
“What the heck?” I whispered to myself. “Where’s Roger?”
Roger, my husband, usually came home earlier than me. But I didn’t see him. That’s when I heard it—his voice. He sounded angry, almost like he was shouting. And it was coming from the living room at the end of the hallway.
My heart started pounding. I dropped my bag on the kitchen island and followed the sound. Just as I got closer, I heard another voice. A woman’s voice.
I pushed the living room door open—and froze.
There she was. Melissa. My husband’s ex-wife. The same woman he had sworn he never wanted to see again. The same woman he once called “a filthy rich spoiled brat.”
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. Why was she in my house?
“Roger?” I said, my voice shaking as I looked around at the half-empty room. “What… what happened to our house?”
Roger’s eyes widened. “Oh, Liz, you’re here?” He looked nervous, almost guilty.
“Yeah, I just got back,” I said sharply. “What is she doing here?”
“I’ll explain everything,” Roger stuttered. “I’ll fix it, I swear.”
He looked desperate for me to stay calm, but Melissa just stood there with a smug grin, like she had already won something. For a moment, I almost thought they were having an affair—until Melissa opened her mouth.
“No, you won’t fix it,” she snapped at Roger. Then she turned to me, her smile widening. “Didn’t he tell you that everything you own is mine?”
Roger’s face turned pale. “I… I…” he stammered, unable to form a sentence.
Melissa stepped closer to me. “Well, honey, all of this furniture? It belongs to me. You see, your husband and I bought it together when we were married. So I’m just taking back what’s mine.”
I stared at her, my jaw nearly dropping. Was she serious? She had barged into my house, gutted it like a thief, and was standing there acting like it was no big deal.
I looked at Roger, hoping he’d step in and stop her. But he just stood there, frozen and ashamed.
“And you’re letting her take everything?” I demanded, my voice rising. “You didn’t even try to stop her? And why didn’t you tell me she was coming? You knew, right?”
Roger lowered his gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Seriously, Roger? That’s it?” I snapped. “I never thought you’d let your ex walk out with our whole life! This is ridiculous.”
Melissa laughed, a cruel little laugh that made my blood boil. “Ridiculous? Oh, honey, I’m sorry, but 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.”
I clenched my fists, holding back the urge to scream in her face. She was wealthy, she ran one of the most successful businesses in town, and she could easily afford brand-new furniture. Yet here she was, stealing used couches and old rugs.
I knew exactly why. This wasn’t about furniture. This was about humiliating me. She wanted to make me feel small, powerless.
“Fine,” I finally spat, glaring at her. “Take it. Take everything you think is yours. But don’t you dare ever contact me or my husband again.”
Melissa smirked. “Sure, honey,” she said sweetly, like she had just won the lottery.
She strutted toward the door and waved at the workers outside. I peeked through the window and saw a huge moving truck parked in our backyard, already stuffed with most of our things. Workers marched in and out, carrying away the last of our furniture.
Meanwhile, Roger stood silently in the corner, his shoulders slumped, watching our home get torn apart. He looked like a broken man.
And that’s when an idea sparked in my mind. A way to make Melissa regret ever setting foot in my house.
As soon as she stepped outside to check on the truck, I rushed into the kitchen. I yanked open the freezer, grabbed a handful of frozen shrimp, and quickly hid them in the furniture that was left. Inside the side tables, tucked in the living room chairs, buried deep in the mattress, and stuffed into decorative pillows.
Melissa had no idea what she was really taking home with her.
When the workers finally finished, Melissa stood at the doorway one last time, smirking. “I hope you’ve taken everything that’s YOURS,” I said, crossing my arms.
She nodded proudly. “Yup, I’m done, honey. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Sure, sorry, I thought bitterly.
Then she strutted out, climbed into her shiny SUV, and drove off.
Roger collapsed onto the ground, holding his head in his hands. Tears slid down his face. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to tell you. She called me a few days ago and warned me she was coming, but I never thought she’d actually do it. I didn’t think she’d go this far.”
I sighed and sat down beside him, rubbing his arm gently. “It’s alright, babe. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to live in a house filled with your ex-wife’s furniture anyway.”
He looked at me, guilt still heavy in his eyes. I could’ve yelled at him, blamed him, ripped him apart for not standing up to Melissa. But I knew that’s exactly what she wanted—to see us fight and fall apart. And I wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction.
“Instead of apologizing,” I said with a small laugh, “I want you to buy me new furniture. Anything I pick. I want this place to feel like home again.”
Roger sniffled and nodded. “I’ll do it. I’ll buy every single piece you want. I promise.”
I squeezed his hand tightly. “I love you, Roger. We’ll get through this together.”
That night, as we lay on the bedroom floor—since even our bed was gone—I realized something important. I didn’t need Melissa’s furniture to make my house feel like home. I had Roger. And that was enough.
But the story didn’t end there.
A few days later, while scrolling through Facebook, I stumbled upon a post in a local group. It was from Melissa herself.
Her words made me laugh so hard I nearly dropped my phone:
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 airing it out, deep cleaning, and even baking soda, but nothing works!
The smell is unbearable—I can’t even walk into the storage room without gagging. Please, if anyone has tips, I’m losing my mind here!
I grinned from ear to ear. All her money, all her arrogance, and she was brought down by a few hidden shrimp.
Revenge, as they say, is best served cold.
