Champagne was still bubbling when my husband stood up, clinked his glass, and smiled like a stranger. “Twenty-five years is enough,” he announced. “I want someone younger. Pack your things—out of the apartment tomorrow.” Laughter and gasps collided around me. My hands shook as I reached for the microphone. “Okay,” I said softly, then raised my eyes. “But before I leave… let’s tell them whose apartment this really is.”
Champagne was still bubbling when my husband stood up, clinked his glass, and smiled like a stranger. “Twenty-five years is enough,” he announced. “I want someone younger. Pack your things—out of the apartment tomorrow.” For a second, the room froze. Then someone let out an awkward laugh, like it was a joke that just didn’t…