Amid Their Storm, I Found My Exit

After I became pregnant, the truth about my marriage finally became clear.

My husband Andrew’s so-called “childhood friend” Quinn could freely enter our bedroom, spend my money, and live in the house I had paid for.

Meanwhile, I, the legal wife who had covered the mortgage and supported the household, was treated like an outsider, mocked, and had my contributions publicly itemized at our housewarming party.

When I refused to keep footing the bill, they called me cheap. When I tried to uphold my boundaries, they called me vicious.

Then came that stormy night, when he, faced with a life-or-death decision, unequivocally placed me and our unborn child last.

In that moment, I finally understood.

This wasn’t favoritism. This was calculated abandonment.

If they wanted me gone, this time I would make the first move.

1

Emily POV

There was never any boundary between my husband Andrew and his childhood friend Quinn.

Our friends and family didn’t see it as odd. They praised their “unbreakable bond.”

As the lady of the house, I’d watch Quinn walk into our bedroom without knocking.

When she admired the matching mugs I’d bought, Andrew gave her the one that said “His” without a second thought.

He even let her nap in our bed.

“We’re all family,” he’d say. “What’s the big deal?”

The moment I showed any discomfort, Quinn would pout and sigh. “Andrew and I have always been like this. I can’t just change overnight.”

A cold laugh rose in my throat.

Screw your childhood bond.

On the day of our new housewarming party, I was in the kitchen, heavily pregnant, preparing dinner.

Andrew and Quinn were side-by-side on the sofa, playing video games, just waiting for the meal.

Other guests chatted in the living room, wine glasses in hand. Not one offered to help me, a pregnant woman.

At dinner, Andrew completely disregarded table manners, immediately forking the tenderest piece of roast beef from his plate to Quinn’s.

“I know you like the tender cuts. This one’s for you.”

Quinn complained her sauce was too spicy, and without a second thought, she used her own fork to reach into Andrew’s plate and take a side dish. “Andrew, yours looks better. I want this.”

Odessa, my mother-in-law, beamed, her face creasing with delight. “That’s right! Quinn grew up in our house, she doesn’t mind!”

My hand, holding the knife and fork, hovered in mid-air, feeling utterly out of place.

I paid the down payment for this house, I handled the mortgage, and I bought all the party ingredients and drinks.

Yet, at this dining table, I felt like a stranger forced to share a meal.

After dinner, a friend suggested we play Truth or Dare.

The mood was loose and boozy.

I sat in the corner with my glass of warm water, watching.

Andrew lost. His friends nudged him toward the dare, grinning. “If there were no legal consequences, who would you most want to give this house to?”

A few of his childhood buddies immediately shouted, “That’s a given! For Quinn, as a wedding gift!”

Andrew chuckled, trying to play it off. “Quinn’s like my little sister. What’s mine is hers.”

Quinn chimed in, “Exactly! Emily makes so much money, she can just buy another one, right?”

Everyone raised their glasses and cheered, as if they had already decided the ownership of my property.

Andrew’s friends even started idly playing with the cash on the table, half-jokingly asking for a share.

I walked to the liquor cabinet, grabbed a bottle of Andrew’s prized aged whiskey, and smashed it fiercely onto the marble floor of the living room.

Glass shattered, the scent of whiskey filled the air, and the entire room fell silent.

“So eager to divide up my house? Fine. The police can come, they can make it official.”

I pulled out my phone and dialed 91