After 37 years of marriage, Jake left his wife, Edith. He’d fallen for his much younger secretary and, feeling freshly alive and absurdly confident, he did what cliché tells us so many midlife men do: he upgraded his partner and downgraded his morals.
With the help of a slick legal team, Jake managed to take almost everything—including their multi-million-dollar marital home. He gave Edith just three days to pack up and leave.
Three days.
No sentiment. No respect for nearly four decades together. Just cold papers and a cruel deadline.
So Edith packed.
Day one, she boxed up her life—carefully folding memories into suitcases and crates.
Day two, the movers came and carried her things away.
Day three… was for shrimp, caviar, and a masterstroke of petty brilliance.
That evening, she lit candles across the long dining room table—the one where they had hosted family dinners, toasts, anniversaries. She poured herself a chilled glass of Chardonnay, put on soft music, and feasted alone on a full pound of shrimp and an entire jar of caviar.
When she was finished, Edith didn’t cry. She didn’t yell.
She got up, took a deep breath… and got to work.
In every room, she unscrewed the ends of the curtain rods—each one of them—and stuffed them with shrimp shells, dipped in fishy, luxurious caviar.
Then, calmly and quietly, she wiped down the kitchen, took out the trash, and left.
Jake moved in the next day with his new girlfriend. At first, it was a dream: love, freedom, and their perfectly furnished million-dollar palace.
Then came the smell.
It was subtle at first—an odd whiff here and there—but it grew stronger with each passing day. A stench that could only be described as dead ocean creature meets musty decay.
They tried everything: scrubbing, disinfecting, mopping, steam-cleaning.
The HVAC system was inspected. The carpets were replaced. Exterminators were called.
They even set off chemical bombs and fled to a hotel for the weekend.
Nothing helped.
The maid quit.
Guests refused to visit.
Contractors came in… and then walked right back out.
The smell refused to die—and so did the curse that came with it.
Eventually, they had to move out. The house was unsellable—even after they slashed the price in half. Realtors stopped returning their calls. No one wanted “The House That Reeked.”
Desperate, drowning in new mortgage debt, Jake got a call—from Edith.
“How’s the house?” she asked, sweetly.
He told her everything—the nightmare of it all. The smell. The shame. The silence.
She listened patiently, then said, “You know, I really do miss that place. I’d even be willing to take it off your hands—if you’d be open to renegotiating the settlement.”
Jake, assuming she had no idea about the smell, pounced on the offer. He quickly agreed to sell the house back—for just a tenth of its original value—as long as she signed that very day.
She agreed.
Within the hour, the paperwork was signed and delivered. A week later, Jake and his girlfriend stood on the curb, smiling and relieved, as movers loaded up everything to take to their new home.
Including the curtain rods.
Moral of the story?
Never underestimate a woman with a good memory, a bottle of wine, and a pound of shrimp.
And maybe, just maybe—don’t trade 37 years of loyalty for someone who still uses Instagram filters.
🙂
