When he finally made it back to our state three days later, he couldn’t get into the house. His keys didn’t work. His garbage bags were waiting neatly on the driveway, and my divorce lawyer had already drafted the initial paperwork, citing infidelity and the reckless dissipation of marital assets.

Ethan tried to argue that his Vegas wedding was a “drunken joke” and that he didn’t actually sign the paperwork legally, but the damage was utterly irreversible. I submitted his text message to my lawyer, and it served as the silver bullet for the entire divorce proceeding. My “boring energy” meant I had kept meticulous records of every penny we ever earned, spent, and saved. I walked away with the house, my retirement intact, and the absolute satisfaction of knowing that the last time he tried to make me feel small, it cost him his entire life.

I haven’t spoken to Ethan in months. The last I heard, he was renting a tiny room in a shared apartment and facing disciplinary action at work because the HR department didn’t look kindly on the drama his affair with Rebecca brought to the office. I guess he finally got the excitement he was looking for. As for me? I’m enjoying my sad little life. It turns out, it’s incredibly peaceful.