My divorce from Liam was finalized a few weeks ago, and as I prepared to sleep one night, I reflected on everything he had put me through.
Let me give you an example. Danielle, our 10-year-old daughter, begged me for ballet lessons two years ago. I was prepared to make it work by cutting money here and there to make her happy.

But just as I was ready to phone the academy, Liam arrived home, grinning like he had won the lottery. He claimed he had used all of our cash to invest in a cryptocurrency that his friend predicted would soon blow up.

In the end, the entire thing was a hoax, and I had to inform my daughter that ballet was not an option for us at this time.

For illustrative purposes only.
Months after the swindle, I spotted Liam watching trade videos and eventually got down with him for a serious conversation.

“I AM thinking about the future. We’re going to be rich thanks to one of these things. You just don’t believe in me.”

“Well, then. Since you don’t trust me, let’s get a di:vor:ce,” Liam said, crossing his arms and leaning on the sofa.

Unfortunately, di:vor:ce takes longer than you may anticipate. Years, actually.
I should have felt lighter once my divorce was official. But as I fell asleep that night, I reflected on how my heart still hurts when I think about Liam. I hoped he’d been the man he claimed to be. But most importantly, I wished he wanted to be a decent father.

Danielle’s loud scream jolted me out of sleep hours later.

When I approached the door, I noticed a shadowy figure running toward me. Before I could respond, he shoved passed me and smashed me into the frame. The impact caused a searing pain in my shoulder, but I was more concerned for Danielle.

For illustrative purposes only.
She sat up in bed, terrified. “It was a man,” she stammered, her eyes wide. “He had a crowbar. I think… I think it was Daddy.”

I cradled her in my arms, desperately attempting to protect her from the terror that clawed at my throat. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I’m here.”

When the sun rose, we noticed Danielle’s gold jewelry had vanished.

With a heavy heart, I called my mother, Helen, and asked if Danielle could stay with her for a time.
I hired a security company and had a high-quality alarm system installed. It consists of motion detectors and cameras that send notifications directly to my phone.

For the first week, nothing occurred.

Ten days after she left for her grandmother’s house, just after 2 a.m., my phone vibrated with an alert: “Motion detected – Front Door.”

For illustrative purposes only.
I quit the security app and called 911, whispering to the dispatcher, “There is someone in my house. Please send help.”

I should have remained concealed, but I wanted to confront him, so I snuck down the stairs, clutching my phone tightly in one hand.

Pushing the door open just enough to see inside, I noticed a man in black attempting to pull down the tool rack on the wall. A crowbar gleamed in his grasp.

I stepped deeper inside and shouted out, “Liam?”

The figure froze and looked towards me. It was obviously my ex. His face was partially concealed by a black mask, but I recognized his eyes and attitude.

Instead of escaping like the last time, he began marching toward me with the crowbar lifted like a weapon.
I instinctively went to the other wall, where we kept a button that opened the garage door.

At that very time, two police cars sped into the driveway, their sirens piercing the darkness. Officers jumped out, their firearms drawn.

“Freeze!” one of them shouted.

“What the hell were you thinking, Liam?” I asked, my voice shaking with anger.

He avoided my eyes. “Gina, it’s not what you think…”

He couldn’t meet my eyes as he confessed. “When I was packing, I saw a safe in the garage,” he mumbled. “I thought… maybe there was something valuable in there. I didn’t touch it back then…. But now, I just… needed a little something to get by.”

For illustrative purposes only.
I shook my head and watched as the cops led him away, leaving me standing in the garage.
The following morning, I phoned a locksmith to access the safe.

Just a stack of neatly arranged bank docs.

My grandfather had stored his whole money in various safe deposit boxes. And the access to all of them was registered to me.

My selfish ex had just handed me and my kid the key to riches I had no idea existed.

For illustrative purposes only.
When the judge pronounced his sentence for attempted theft, breaking and entering, and possessing a firearm, I moved forward to get his attention.

“Thank you, Liam,” I said, my voice steady. “Because of your greed, I found out I’m rich. And you? Well… I hope you like prison food.”