After Cheating on Me, My Ex Cut up My Favorite Outfits So I Wouldn’t ‘Look Pretty for Another Man’

The hardest aspect, in my opinion, was leaving following his infidelity. Then I entered and saw my husband tearing up my clothing, saying he didn’t want me to appear attractive to other men. I made the decision that he wouldn’t have the last say at that point.

When your dad skipped the Sunday service, I, 35, respectfully feigned not to know, even though everyone in my little Midwestern town knew everyone’s dog’s name. There, potluck casseroles may make or break a friendship, depending on how much mayo you use, and secondhand stores are revered as much as the church steps.

My life was tranquil. Nothing ostentatious. Not because I had to, but because I loved it, I took into adulthood the yard sale finds my mom reared me on. Clothes are more than simply fabric to me. They are history. My past.

Years before our marriage grew old and quiet started to engulf us, there was the red wrap dress I wore the night Chris kissed me for the first time under the fairground lights. My mother once said that I looked “so Audrey” when I wore the mint green vintage item to that elegant supper.

And then there was the absurd sequined shift I purchased one chilly night when I was seven months postpartum and really wanted to feel like someone other than “Mom.”

Every item had a backstory. I gathered close to fifty of them throughout the years. It was more than just a closet. It was a wearable diary.

I once believed that a marriage could be maintained just on memories. I was mistaken.

Everything began to fall apart a few months ago, initially in a quiet manner. After church committee meetings, my husband of eight years, Chris, started staying later. During dinner, he was unexpectedly faced with more texts to respond to. I didn’t immediately question him. When something feels familiar, you don’t question it until it begins to feel strange.

Then, one evening, I was in our bedroom folding laundry. His phone buzzed when his socks, my pajamas, and our kid Noah’s little superhero underwear were all stacked on the bed.

The words “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. xoxo” appeared on the screen.

What’s the name? Kara Church.

Kara. The woman with the flawless teeth and the chirpy laugh. The person who, as if seating was assigned, always brought lemon bars to church and somehow found a seat next to Chris at every potluck. I hadn’t second-guessed myself. I didn’t want to.

It was hardly a loud betrayal. There was no yelling or slamming of doors. A muttered “I’m sorry,” a chilly shrug, and no sign of embarrassment. He made no attempt to clarify when I approached him. “Come on,” he responded instead, “Hayley, you’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

Promotion
For me, that was it.

I expressed my desire for a divorce to him.

He first pleaded. Then he attempted bargaining, tossing out phrases like “Noah,” “reputation,” and “church committee.” When that didn’t work, he went to guilt.

His voice tight with fear, he said, “You know how this’ll look, right? What will people say?”

“They’ll say the truth, Chris,” I answered again. “That you chose her.”

That weekend, I packed up and moved in with my mother. I simply brought the necessities: Noah’s favorite books, my laptop, and my toothbrush. I left my dresses and almost everything else behind. My heart was still hurting with every beat at the time, so I simply couldn’t bring myself to go through the memories.

I made the decision to return for them three days later. I intended to get in and out fast and without making a big deal out of it. I was thinking of this plan. I would enter as if I hadn’t just sobbed into my pillow the previous evening. As if they weren’t holy, I would seize the clothes. Like it was just another errand, I would go.

However, it was not the case.

I froze as I opened the bedroom door.

Chris had a pair of fabric shears in his hand and was crouched over my garments in the center of the room. There were limp slivers of cloth all over the floor. He was slicing through silk as if it were paper wrapping.

It sounded like someone tearing up a photo album as scissors cut through chiffon. It was cruel and irrevocable.

I said, “What are you doing?!” Before I could steady my voice, it shattered.

He gently raised his head, his mouth twisted into a smug little smirk, his eyes chilly.

“If you’re leaving, I don’t want you to look pretty for another man,” he replied. “I don’t want you to find a replacement.”

Stunned, I gazed at him. Not because I didn’t expect pettiness from Chris, but because he knew exactly what those clothes meant to me. Nevertheless, he chopped them.

I refrained from screaming. Nothing was thrown by me. I simply took the few items he hadn’t touched, which included a scarf my mother had made for me during my pregnancy, some jewelry, and a pair of shoes. After that, I left.

I parked in the driveway after returning to my mother’s house. By that time, it was dark. Inside, Noah was fast sleeping. For hours, I watched my own breath fog up the window while I sat in the car with the motor off.

I cried the way your throat cries when it has no more voice left in it.

Then I became intelligent.

Evidence could make things better, but tears couldn’t. I took pictures of the scissors, the torn cloth, and the way he had destroyed something that had never been his.

By the next evening, I had a plan. It wasn’t the sort of retaliation you see in viral headlines or trashy reality shows. I did not wish to destroy him. All I wanted was for him to sit in his own mess. I wanted him to see how cruel and insignificant his decisions were. I wanted him to recognize his own fingerprints when he saw the damage.

Promotion
I began modestly.

I sent him a text.

“I’ll pop in tomorrow to collect the remnants of the dresses,” I composed myself.

He answered almost immediately.

“Pfft. I’ll be at work. Grab your rags. Leave your key under the mat and never come back.”

The smugness was almost visible on the screen. He believed that he had won something.

He didn’t know what I was going to do.

I got into the automobile by myself the following morning. Not much fanfare. No companions to witness. Three days’ worth of resolution, a canvas tote bag, and me sitting like a stone in my chest.

After pulling into the driveway, I inhaled deeply.

As he had promised, the front door was unlocked. I entered. The smell of the place was a combination of cheap cigar smoke and bleach or something sharp and toxic. It wasn’t a homely scent. The odor was that of erasing.

The faded photo of us on the hallway wall, Noah’s artwork still tacked to the refrigerator, and the filthy dish he hadn’t bothered to wash in the sink were all details I let my eyes dwell on as I carefully made my way through the house.

I then arrived in the bedroom.

It was there. In the center of the floor was a big black garbage bag filled with ripped cloth and jumbled memories. Not that he had thrown it out. Like an afterthought, he had simply left it there.

On this occasion, I did not cry.

I haven’t yet touched it.

I simply stood in the doorway, allowing the quiet to grow, clinging to the composure I had mentally practiced a hundred times.

Patience would be needed for the next phases.

and accuracy.

Retaliation was not on my thoughts when I woke up the following morning. It didn’t go like that. My sensation was more akin to flatness, akin to burned-out lightbulbs in a space I once cherished.

Even yet, I knew I couldn’t ignore the garbage bag full of ripped silk and tulle as I stood in that hallway, staring at it.

I therefore made a decision.

It was undoubtedly a foolish decision and not a noble one. It was merely a highly satisfying, trivial thing. Chris used to make me feel uneasy in quiet ways, and I wanted him to feel that way too. For example, he “joked” that a particular clothing was too showy for church, rolled his eyes at my lipstick, and chatted over me at potlucks as if my stories weren’t important.

I had no intention of going all scorched earth. I had no intention of ruining his life.

He took some aspects of his world for granted, and I intended to spoil them. the little components. He believed that I would always keep the household comforts clean and folded for him.

So I did something.

Since I don’t want to become someone who teaches sabotage, I won’t provide a comprehensive how-to instruction here. But I will say this: after a day or two, the smell of sour milk poured beneath the cushions of his priceless leather sofa is distinct. Eggs concealed in the pockets of coats? They ultimately crack, but not immediately.

I wasn’t careless. There was only the kind of clutter and inconvenience that you can’t get away from without exerting yourself; there was no destruction.

I got it just right. I made sure to get in and out of there before things got out of hand because I knew he would be at work.

I then parked a few homes away and bided my time. It was one of those sweltering afternoons when the air feels heavy and cicadas scream from the trees. I stayed even though my hands trembled on the steering wheel. I was hoping to see it.

Around five o’clock in the evening, he arrived home with a lunch bag, singing something, and that same smug little bounce in his stride. He opened the door, entered, and stopped nearly instantly.

I could see him sniffing the air even from the automobile, like if something had exploded in the refrigerator. Then he vanished within. I pictured him sniffing his sleeves and removing cushions when he realized he couldn’t attribute this to the neighbors or the trash.

That little instant? I was surprised by how sweet it tasted.

However, I quickly discovered that petty retaliation is like sugar. Although it gives you a high, it wears off quickly.

Something that stuck was what I desired.

I therefore stacked the strategy.

I started working on the more important bits while Chris was busy cleaning the milk stench off his furniture and attempting to determine the source of the issue.

I started by taking as many pictures as I could of the harm he had done on my outfits. Good lighting, crisp images, close-ups of designer tags, split seams in the middle, and receipts from the stores where I purchased them. I wanted all of it recorded.

I then forwarded the photos to my mother and Jo, who has been my best friend since high school. I made no requests of them. All I wanted was for them to see. I wanted everybody to see.

Jo called me practically right away.

“What the hell, Hayley? He actually cut your dresses?”

When I said, “Scissors to chiffon,” “Like some twisted arts and crafts project.”

“Okay, no. I’m sorry, but that man needs a hobby—and therapy.”

I had a brief moment of laughter. My chest was still burdened with too much weight.

Telling her, “I just want this to mean something,” “I want it to matter.”

“It will. Just keep everything. Document it all. And don’t you dare delete a single text.”

Thus, I didn’t. I actually contacted Martin, Chris’s employer, who I knew would not be influenced by charm or justifications. It wasn’t dramatic on my part. Along with the photos, I sent a brief email stating that I was creating a record and that these were valuable items that were destroyed during our separation. I had no intention of firing him. I simply wanted a member of his professional community to witness his true self behind closed doors.

I printed those pictures as well and put them in a folder.

Then came the part that made me feel wonderful, even though I didn’t expect it to.

I slid a brief, silent letter beneath Kara’s door. Yes, the woman with the flawless blond hair and the polished grin of a community volunteer—that Kara. I didn’t curse at her. I made no accusations against her. I just said, “You deserve the truth.” I also attached a few pictures and mentioned that I had discovered texts between her and Chris.

No poison. Just the facts.

I had no intention of ruining her life. To be honest, I wasn’t even certain she was aware of the extent of the situation. All I wanted was for her to have an option. must go before she was as badly burned as I was.

I’m not sure what she did with that note, but I do know that she immediately stopped attending church.

Although boring, the judicial sessions were essential. I turned over all the documents, including screenshots, receipts, and photos. When the evidence was shown, the judge didn’t even flinch.

Chris was ultimately forced to pay me back for the garments that were ruined. It was never about the money, and I was also given a little extra sum that was marked as “willful destruction of property.” The attire may have been changed by me. I needed someone to admit that his actions were wrong in all relevant respects, including morally, legally, and personally.

After suppressing it for months, that validation was like breathing for the first time.

The best thing, though?

Two weeks after everything was finished, it arrived on a Saturday.

Meg and Tanya, two more women from our former college group that I hadn’t seen in years, arrived at my mom’s house with Jo. A car full of costumes, hats, scarves, and shoes, including a crazy, shimmering blue gown that seemed like it belonged on a 1980s cruise liner, had come in from the city.

Standing barefoot on the porch in sweatpants and a disheveled bun, I questioned, “What is all this?”

“Revenge rehab,” Jo told them. “We’re going shopping, and you’re not allowed to say no.”

We ate breakfast at a little café where the pancakes were excellent but the coffee was terrible. We spent the afternoon rummaging through vintage and thrift stores, shouting across racks and holding up outfits.

“Hayley, this one has your name all over it!”

“You need this. Look at that neckline. You could kill someone in that.”

My face hurt from smiling, and my arms hurt from trying things on by the end of the day.

Chris had attempted to minimize me. Cutting those dresses was done specifically for that reason. He sought to destroy my happiness, my self-assurance, and my light.

He only created room for more of it, though.

Over time, I swapped out the majority of the dresses, but some were lost. And that’s all right. I stored some of the torn ones in a box as a sort of memory jar rather than as awards. A reminder of what I left behind and what I managed to survive.

A week later, I had one final unexpected turn of events.

I was searching for an ugly sweater for a friend’s Halloween party at a nearby secondhand store. It’s just something big and ugly. Noah was talking about dinosaurs and crackers while pushing his stroller. A woman behind the counter yelled out while I was looking through a rack of polyester, half-listening.

“Hey, aren’t you the one whose dresses were ruined? We’ve been hearing about it at church.”

I blinked in surprise as I looked up.

I answered, “Yeah,” slowly. “That one.”

She looked at me with a tilted head and said, “You look… unbothered.”

It wasn’t a mask for once, so I grinned.

“I am,” I said. “Thanks.”

That seemed like the final word to me.

However, my phone buzzed as I was about to leave after paying.

The message came from an unidentified number.

“He thought he could stop you. He didn’t. Watch your back.”

As I gazed at the TV, my stomach turned. I couldn’t tell if it was Chris on some burner number, Kara, or someone from church. That shiver ran down my spine.

I held Noah’s stroller handle while I stood there for a while. On the way home, he continued to kick his feet and giggle while requesting apple slices.

And I came to a realization.

I wasn’t broken by him.

I hadn’t been stopped by him.

I slung the ridiculous orange sweater over my arm, threw the phone in my bag, and folded it shut.

We went out into the sunlight.

I didn’t feel scared.

No longer.

Do you believe I made the correct decision? If you were in my shoes, how would you have responded?