The Neglected Wife's Maine Escape

My world shattered when the call came: my beloved father was gone. But even as grief consumed me, my husband, Mark, dealt a cruel blow. He skipped the funeral, prioritizing his "friend" Tiffany-a woman whose endless dramas always seemed to come first. Returning home from Maine, heartbroken and exhausted, he casually asked me to cook chicken soup for Tiffany because she was "not feeling well." That was the moment I realized I wasn't just a wife or a grieving daughter; I was merely his live-in chef for another woman. Then, Tiffany began to appear everywhere. She took over my desk at my old job, openly supported by Mark, who claimed I wasn't "using it much anyway." She even clung to him at my own farewell party, while Mark made endless excuses for her sensitive needs. The casual contempt in Mark's eyes, his constant choice of her over my profound pain, was the final, cold confirmation: I was utterly discarded, an inconvenience in my own life. How could he be so blind? So utterly consumed by someone else's petty crises while my entire world fell apart? Why did he never see the depth of my despair, or the silent resolve hardening within me? But their casual cruelty became my catalyst. That night, instead of mourning what was lost, I meticulously planned my escape. I printed divorce papers, discreetly tucking them beneath some mundane volunteer forms. The very next day, I had Mark sign them, unknowingly sealing his own fate as he rushed off to Tiffany's latest "emergency." I left without a word, driving towards Maine, towards my father's dream, and a new life he could no longer ruin.