He Sent Me on a Spa Weekend. I Sent Him to Hell—Via Hawaii.
It was supposed to be a thoughtful gift.
My husband surprised me with a “spa weekend”—a luxury retreat at a five-star resort, complete with massages, facials, and room service. “You’ve been incredible,” he told me, cupping my face with that familiar tenderness. “You deserve some peace, just for you.”
I was touched. After years of pouring myself into motherhood, running our household, and supporting his every endeavor, this felt like a genuine moment of appreciation. I even called my best friend on the drive up and said, “Maybe he really does see me.”
The spa was everything I needed—quiet, calm, restorative. But something tugged at me by the second day. A gnawing feeling I couldn’t name. I decided to cut the trip short and surprise him with dinner.
Back home, I walked through the door expecting a quiet house. What I found was far from quiet—a travel itinerary left on the counter. Two first-class plane tickets to Hawaii. Dates that matched our long-planned family vacation. Only, I wasn’t one of the passengers. And worse? The second ticket wasn’t for our child.
It was for her. The woman I had long suspected, but never had proof to confront.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw things or call him in a fury.
I called Ashley, my friend who works for a travel agency.
Together, we worked fast. We upgraded their hotel suite to one with a broken air conditioner, no ocean view, and situated next to a major construction site. I canceled his prepaid snorkeling tour, sunset cruise, and private luau dinner. Then I sent him a convincing fake email—claiming his entire reservation had been flagged for fraud and his credit card was under review.
The cherry on top? I set up a text alert so that every time he tried to use the card… declined.
When he called me—fuming, standing in a packed airport surrounded by sweating tourists—his voice was tight with disbelief. “What the hell is going on?! Everything’s falling apart!”
I paused. Then said softly, “Hope your little vacation was worth it.” And I hung up.
Then I booked my real spa weekend. A peaceful retreat. Champagne in hand, wrapped in a robe, surrounded by silence. Only this time, I wasn’t returning home to him.
The final detail? I had the divorce papers delivered to him at his hotel—overnight express. Signed, sealed, and stress-free.
Let him explain that to her.
Because the truth is, I did deserve a break. Just not the one he imagined.
