My Daughter Encouraged My Wife to Cheat, Saying We Live Only Once; I Got Revenge on Them Both

That money might buy them a few months of rent in some cheap apartment or help them fix Marcus’s old sedan. Meanwhile, I still had the lion’s share of funds safely tucked in my private account, free and clear. A month later, I heard through a friend that Brenda and Karen had moved in with Marcus full-time. Only, it wasn’t the rosy family reunion they’d hoped for.

Marcus, just as prone to drunken rages as before, was reported to be backhanding Brenda if she so much as frowned in his direction. Karen, who had once championed her father, now found herself forced to take public transportation, dealing with the stares and whispers of classmates who wondered why she no longer had a car.

She had to explain that “My stepdad took it away.” which apparently garnered little sympathy. I took no joy in imagining them in that environment. Abuse is never a pleasant subject, but I also felt no compulsion to rescue them. They had made a choice, humiliating me, draining my goodwill, and brazenly flaunting their betrayal, and they were paying the cost of that decision.

The moral conundrum was overshadowed by the simple logic, not my problem. By that point, I had an exit plan for myself. I had accepted a partnership in Bangkok, something I’d been offered years prior but never considered until now. With my new financial freedom, I left for Thailand, stepping onto the plane with a sense of relief that was both exhilarating and tinged with sorrow.

Five years of marriage ended in such a fiasco, but at least I was free. Fast forward a few months. I was settling into my new life in Bangkok. The sweltering heat, the bustling streets, and the melodic chaos of the city offered me a bizarre kind of solace. I rented a modern condo overlooking the Chao Phraya River, diving into my new job with enthusiasm.

My personal life was quiet. I had short-lived flings, sure, but nothing serious. I was still recovering from the emotional whiplash of the past. One Sunday afternoon, as I was wandering through a bustling outdoor market, marveling at the array of street food, my phone rang. The caller ID was American, but not in my contacts.

Curiosity piqued, I picked up. “Brian speaking.” I said. At first, there was silence, then a small, shaky voice that I recognized instantly as Karen’s. “Uh hi.” she said, sounding nothing like her usual abrasive self. A swirl of conflicting emotions coursed through me. “What do you want?” I asked, trying to keep my tone detached.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “Please don’t hang up.” I stepped aside from the crowd, found a quieter corner near a stand selling fresh coconuts. “You’ve got 60 seconds,” I warned. “Spit it out.” Karen let out a shaky breath. “I’m I’m pregnant,” she finally said, her voice cracking. “And my father, Marcus, he’s flipping out. Mom’s furious.

They kicked me out. Like, literally threw me out of the house. I’ve got nowhere to go. I’m staying at a friend’s place, but I can’t stay here for long. I have no money. I don’t even have enough to pay for for anything. I’m scared, Brian. I don’t know what to do.” My mind reeled. Karen was pregnant? My 18-year-old ex-stepdaughter.

A thousand questions popped into my head. Who’s the father? Possibly some boyfriend or maybe a fling. Knowing her rebellious streak, it didn’t surprise me. My shock quickly gave way to a cold sense of finality. She seemed to sense my hesitation. “Please,” she pleaded. “You can’t leave me like this. I’ll do anything.

I’ll never disrespect you again, I promise. I just can you help me with some money for like prenatal care or rent or something?” Time seemed to stand still in that humid Bangkok afternoon. I stared at the vibrant market stalls in front of me, the swirl of tourists and locals. A wave of memories hit me. Karen’s scornful eyes, her vicious insults, her glee in pushing her mother toward Marcus, her hateful voicemails, the eviction scene, her attempt to claw my face.

Now she was pregnant and cast aside by the very father she championed. A little part of me felt pity, yes, but a bigger part recalled everything she had done to me. “No,” I said flatly. She gasped. “What? Are you serious? You’re just going to let me rot?” I inhaled slowly, trying to keep my voice steady despite the swirl of feelings.

“You told me once that your mother could have drink from any watering hole she wants,” I reminded her, “and that you’d do the same.” “Well, go find another watering hole now, Karen. I’m not your father. I owe you nothing. You orchestrated all of this, and now you want me to bail you out?” She started sobbing. “I was a kid. I I messed up, okay? I didn’t realize it would go this far.

Please, Brian, you have the money.” I cut her off. “I do have the money. That’s correct, but I have zero inclination to give any of it to you. You helped destroy my marriage. You called me every name in the book. You threatened to sue me for domestic abuse. And now you want my help?” She let out a ragged cry. “I’m pregnant. I’m scared.

I’m I interrupted her once more. “Karen, I’m hanging up now. Good luck. You made your bed, lie in it.” “Brian, don’t do this to me, please.” But I’d already pressed the red button to end the call. My heart hammered with adrenaline, a part of me shaking from the confrontation. Anger, pity, sadness, everything warred inside me.

But the bitterness of betrayal won out. I wouldn’t let her back into my life as if nothing had happened. And that was it. I stared at my phone, exhaling a shuddering breath. Then I squared my shoulders and rejoined the crowd, determined to move on with my day, and by extension, my life. The last word she’d spat out before the line cut was, “Please,” which drifted away into silence.

A final attempt at manipulation, or perhaps a genuine cry for help. Either way, it changed nothing. She was pregnant, and I sent [clears throat] her straight to hell.