Part 2: Ten Minutes
The knocking on the bathroom door turned from sharp to frantic.
“Elena! Please!” Miguel shouted. “This isn’t what it looks like!”
I didn’t answer.
I sipped a glass of water and watched the seconds tick by on the microwave clock. Each knock echoed through the house like a countdown.
Behind that door, my husband of twelve years was trapped with the woman who waved at me every morning.
Carla’s voice cracked through the wood. “Miguel, my phone—where’s my phone?”
“Stop panicking,” he hissed. “She’s just angry. She’ll open the door.”
I almost laughed.
I stood up and walked to the bathroom door, stopping just short of touching it.
“Don’t worry,” I said calmly, my voice carrying through the wood. “Help is on the way.”
The silence that followed was delicious.
Then panic exploded.
“What do you mean, help?” Carla shrieked.
Miguel’s breathing turned heavy. “Elena… please. Think about the kids. Think about us.”
I leaned my forehead briefly against the cool wall.
I had thought about the kids.
That was why I was doing this.
The Arrival
Exactly ten minutes later, headlights swept across the living room walls.
A car door slammed.
Footsteps.
I opened the front door with a soft, polite smile.
“Ramon,” I said warmly. “Thank you so much for coming on such short notice.”
He stood there in his work polo, tired but kind, holding a small toolbox.
“No problem,” he said. “You said the downstairs bathroom?”
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s… occupied.”
He frowned. “Occupied?”
Right on cue, the pounding on the bathroom door resumed.
“Ramon!” Carla screamed. “Please—open the door!”
Ramon froze.
“That sounds like… Carla?”
I stepped aside and gestured toward the hallway.
“I thought it would be best if you saw for yourself.”
The Door Opens
Ramon walked slowly toward the bathroom. His face had drained of color. His hand shook as he reached for the latch.
He looked back at me once.
I nodded.
He unlocked the door.
The smell of steam and cheap perfume rushed out.
Carla stood wrapped in a towel, her hair wet, mascara streaked down her face. Miguel stood behind her, half-dressed, his mouth open like a man who had forgotten how to speak.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Then Ramon laughed.
Not loudly.
Not angrily.
Just once—short and hollow.
“So this,” he said quietly, “is the plumbing problem.”
Carla reached for him. “Ramon, listen—”
He stepped back.
“Don’t,” he said. “Just… don’t.”
Miguel tried next. “Ramon, bro—this was a mistake.”
Ramon turned slowly.
“You called me bro,” he said, voice flat, “while sleeping with my wife in my neighbor’s house.”
Miguel said nothing.
Ramon looked at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And I knew he meant it—for both of us.
The Collapse
What followed wasn’t shouting.
It was worse.
Ramon walked past Carla, sat down on the couch, and buried his face in his hands.
Carla sobbed, dropping to her knees, begging him to forgive her.
Miguel tried to speak again.
I raised my hand.
“Stop,” I said.
He did.
“I invited Ramon here,” I continued, my voice steady, “so there would be no lies. No gaslighting. No rewriting of history.”
I turned to Ramon.
“You can take as much time as you need here,” I said gently. “Or you can leave. Either way, you deserve the truth.”
Ramon stood up slowly.
“I’m taking my wife home,” he said. “We’ll talk there.”
Carla looked relieved—until he added:
“But after that, we’re done.”
Her sobbing turned into wails.
They left without another word.
The End of a Marriage
The house was quiet again.
Miguel sank onto a chair, rubbing his face.
“Elena,” he whispered. “We can fix this.”
I looked at the man I once loved.
“When?” I asked. “After the first lie? Or the hundredth?”
He didn’t answer.
“I didn’t scream,” I said. “I didn’t throw things. I didn’t embarrass you online.”
I picked up my phone and placed it on the table.
“But I took pictures. I saved messages. And I called a lawyer.”
His eyes widened.
“I want a divorce,” I said. “And full custody.”
“You can’t—”
“I can,” I replied. “And I will.”
He started to cry.
I didn’t.
Weeks Later
The story traveled through the subdivision faster than monsoon rain.
People chose sides.
Some avoided me.
Some brought food.
Ramon moved out. Carla tried to explain herself to anyone who would listen. Few did.
Miguel rented a small apartment near Quezon City.
The kids stayed with me.
Peace returned slowly, like sunlight after a storm.
Six Months Later
I stood in the same kitchen, making coffee.
The bathroom door was open.
Empty.
Just a room again.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Ramon:
“Thank you for telling the truth. I’m rebuilding. I hope you are too.”
I smiled softly.
I was.
Not louder.
Not harder.
Just… freer.
Sometimes revenge isn’t about destruction.
Sometimes it’s about locking the door, turning off the noise, and letting the truth walk in on its own.