Dear Ms. Tress,
Thank you so much for everything that is good in my life.
When I first found out that my husband was sleeping with you, I was completely intimidated. You’d bulldozed into my home, stolen my husband and ruined my children’s lives, all while maintaining your own seemingly happy marriage and perfect family. I assumed you must be more beautiful, more interesting, more accomplished, more confident and more deserving than I could ever hope to be. I assumed you must be really good at having sex — something I’d never particularly enjoyed.
My intimidation quickly evolved into anger. How dare you take what was mine. How dare you do this to my kids. Who the hell did you think you were and what kind of mother, what kind of wife, what kind of woman would do this to another woman? To another family? To her own family?
I spent months fantasizing about how I would take you down. Humiliate you. Take away your power. Sometimes it was calling you out on social media, with your full name and photo and details … but that would hurt and embarrass my children, and likely make me seem more horrible than you.
So, it would be anonymous! I would plaster your photo around your neighborhood with a warning to women about the homewrecker living on their block. Your husband would see. You would be humiliated. You might even have to move … but that would hurt your children, and then I would be no better than you.
And yes, I fantasized about punching you right in your smug face. In my fantasy, the face I saw when I Googled you would meet the end of my fist and you would be sorry you ever messed with my marriage. My children would be vindicated. Justice would be mine … but then I might go to jail.
I didn’t know what to do with all the anger. I started to let it simmer into sadness. I was about a minute away from falling into the quicksand of depression when I forced my destroyed butt into an exercise class. I rode a stationary bike and cried, unnoticed, in a dark room full of strangers for an hour. That’s when the 105-pound millennial teaching the class told us to pick up the weights on the backs of our bikes and punch the air in front of us like boxers. My tears stopped as I imagined punching the daylights out of your LinkedIn profile pic. When the lights came up, I decided that I was going to let you and all the mess that came with you have what you came for — because I wanted and deserved better.
Here is what happened when I decided to stop fighting for the marriage you helped to break:
I fell in love with a wonderful, grown-ass man who isn’t so easily distracted.
I discovered that sex feels good. Like really, really good.
My kids found out what it’s like to live in a home full of love and laughter where everyone relaxes at night and takes vacations that they actually enjoy because it’s fun to spend time together as a family.
At age 49, I get to share a bed with someone I love who knows what he’s doing and does it a lot. Like, a lot.
I started succeeding at work because you taught me that I can punch the imaginary daylights out of anything that stands in my way.
Did I mention that I am having incredible sex?
I realize you had to give up your marriage and your happiness in order for me to have these things. I know your husband found out about your adultery and your children had to suffer through your divorce, and that in the end my husband didn’t really want you and now you are alone.
You made so many sacrifices so that I could be happy.
So thank you, my ex-husband’s mistress, for sacrificing your happiness in order for me to find mine. Everything that is good in my life is here because of your bad choices.
I’ll be sure to send a fruit basket.
Sincerely,
Me
Stocksy
