Before the guests, my husband mocked me and called me a fat cow: but he had no clue what retaliation awaited him

That night started as if taken from a romantic film. My husband and I were invited to dinner by his close friend and his wife. I spent ages choosing my outfit—I wanted to appear graceful and truly evolved. The evening looked promising: cheerful talk, warm laughter, fine dishes, candles, and sparkling champagne.

But one careless slip destr0yed everything. While eating, I accidentally let a slice of meat fall on my dress. It was minor, yet my husband’s expression instantly shifted: from lighthearted to harsh.

I knew that stare. He often reacted like this, and such trifles always ended in fights. I endured his temper for the sake of love, though deep down, the thought of separation lingered.

Then, right in front of everyone, he turned with a cold grin and declared:

— Excuse my cow. She never knows how to behave in public. Stop stuffing yourself! You’re already fat.

The room went d3ad quiet. His friend and wife sat frozen, surprised by his cruelty. Pain rushed through me, but instead of sobbing, I forced a stiff smile.

“What’s wrong with you?” the friend objected. “Your wife seems wonderful!”

— What? Am I not allowed to tell the truth? — my husband leaned back. — She’s put on weight again. I’m ashamed to be seen with her!

“She’s stunning,” the friend insisted.

— Stunning? — he scoffed. — Have you seen her bare-faced? Terrible! Each morning I wake up wondering: who did I marry?

Something inside me broke. I excused myself and went to the restroom.

“Go cry, calm down, silly,” he sneered after me. 

Alone in the restroom, I finally let the tears flow. But along with them came clarity—I would no longer allow him to crush my dignity. The moment had come to strike back… Continued in the first comment.

I returned and calmly sat at the table. Taking off my wedding band, I placed it before him.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” he scowled.

— I’m filing for divorce.

He chuckled bitterly:

— Ha! Who would want you like this? No man will love you.

— We’ll see, I replied evenly. Tomorrow you’ll pack and leave. From my apartment. After all, I’m too fat to fit there, right? And the car, registered in my name, stays in the garage. Oh, and my brother will be informed. You know just how “fond” he is of you.

— You wouldn’t dare…

— You’ll see.

I rose, grabbed my purse, and walked toward the exit. Behind me came the friend’s voice, low but firm:

— Serves you right, bastard.

I stepped outside, and for the first time in years, I felt truly free.