Before the guests, my husband mocked me and called me a fat cow — but he had no clue what kind of retaliation was waiting.

That night began like something from a romantic film. We had been invited to dinner by his close friend and his wife. I spent a long time choosing my outfit — I wanted to look graceful, refined, radiant. The evening seemed perfect: cheerful talk, laughter, fine dishes, candles, and champagne.

But one careless slip ruined everything. While eating, I accidentally dropped a slice of meat on my dress. A small thing — yet my husband’s expression hardened instantly, turning sharp and cruel.

I knew that look. He often reacted like this, and little mishaps always ended in arguments. I endured his temper for love’s sake, though the thought of leaving him always lingered.

And right there, in front of everyone, he sneered coldly:
— Excuse my cow. She never knows how to act in public. Stop eating already — you’re fat enough.

The table went silent. His friend and wife froze in shock. My chest tightened with pain, but instead of crying, I forced a stiff smile.

— What’s wrong with you? — the friend protested. — Your wife is wonderful!

— What? Am I not allowed to tell the truth? — my husband scoffed. — She’s put on weight again. I’m ashamed to be seen with her!

— She’s beautiful, the friend insisted.

— Beautiful? — he mocked. — See her without makeup. Each morning I wake up asking myself: who did I marry?

Something inside me snapped. I excused myself and went to the restroom.

— Go cry, silly, — he sneered after me.

Alone behind the locked door, the tears came. But with them came clarity — I would never again allow him to crush my dignity. It was time to strike back.

I returned and calmly sat at the table. Removing my wedding ring, I placed it in front of him.

— What’s this supposed to mean? — he frowned.

— I’m filing for divorce.

He laughed bitterly:
— Ha! Who would want you? No man will love you.

— We’ll see, I said evenly. Tomorrow you’ll pack and leave. From my apartment. Since I’m too fat to live there, right? The car — also in my name — stays in the garage. And my brother will hear about this. You remember just how “fond” he is of you.

— You wouldn’t dare…

— You’ll see.

I stood, picked up my purse, and walked to the door. Behind me came the friend’s voice, firm and low:
— Serves you right, bastard.

I stepped outside, and for the first time in years, I felt truly free.