I stood there in the airport, holding Sophia as she wailed. My arms ached, and a pounding headache pressed behind my temples. Where the heck was Ryan?

I bounced Sophia gently, whispering, “Shh, baby girl. It’s okay. Daddy will be back soon.”

But he wasn’t.

Instead, my phone buzzed with a new message. A selfie of Ryan, grinning like an idiot—already on the plane.

“I couldn’t wait anymore. I really needed this vacation. I work so hard. Come with the next flight,” the caption read.

My jaw dropped. He’d left us? Just like that?

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, staring at the screen in disbelief. Sophia’s cries grew louder, as if she sensed my distress. I hugged her closer. “It’s okay, sweetie. We’re going home.”

The cab ride blurred past in flashes of neon and taillights. My fury boiled with every replay of Ryan’s smug selfie.

At home, after putting Sophia down for a nap, I stood in the living room pacing. My fingers hovered over his number—ready to scream at him—but I stopped myself. No. I didn’t want words. I wanted action.

That’s when the idea hit me. The perfect revenge.

I called his hotel. “Hello, Sunset Resort. How may I assist you?” a chirpy receptionist answered.

“Yes, I’m calling about my husband’s reservation. Ryan C—?” I explained, voice sweet as honey. By the end, the staff were almost gleeful in helping me.

“Wake-up calls at 3, 5, and 7 AM? Of course. Unrequested room service? Done. Book him on every available excursion, pottery class, salsa lesson, snorkeling tour? Absolutely.”

I hung up with a dark little smile. Oh, he’d get his “vacation.”

But I wasn’t done.

I boxed up his most treasured possessions—his gaming console, vintage records, designer suits—and drove them straight to a storage unit. “If he wants a solo vacation, he can have a solo life,” I muttered, laughing bitterly at the absurdity of it all.

Then I called a locksmith. By the time Ryan landed his first punch-drunk selfie on the beach, our locks were changed.

For a week, his texts trickled in, increasingly frantic:

• “Natalie, what’s going on? Why is the hotel waking me up every two hours?”

• “Babe, why am I enrolled in a pottery class??”

• “Please pick up, this isn’t funny anymore.”

I ignored them all. Let him stew.

Finally, the day of his return arrived. At the arrivals terminal, he looked less like the smug man from his selfie and more like a sleep-deprived wreck. “Hey,” he muttered sheepishly. “I missed you both.”

“Did you?” I asked coolly. “Did you enjoy your vacation?”

He sighed. “It was… a nightmare. Look, hon, I’m sorry about everything—”

“Let’s talk at home,” I cut him off.

The drive was heavy with silence. When we pulled up, Ryan frowned at the door. “Did you… change the locks?”

“Why don’t you try your key and find out?” I said evenly.

He struggled with the lock, panic creeping into his eyes. “Nat, what’s going on?”

I stood there, Sophia perched on my hip, staring him down. “Your stuff’s in storage. You’ll get it back when you learn to appreciate your family. Until then, consider this your wake-up call.”

His face paled. “What? Nat, come on… it was just a mistake. Please, let’s talk.”

Part of me wanted to slam the door and never look back. But another part—the part that remembered our vows and still hoped for better—hesitated.

So I gave him five minutes on the porch. Five minutes to bare his soul.

He admitted everything: the selfishness, the shame, the regret. He told me he’d missed us every second, that the vacation had been miserable, that he wanted another chance.

I didn’t forgive him instantly. I made him sleep on the couch. I made him book couples therapy. I reminded him every chance I got that a smiley airport selfie nearly cost him his family.

But slowly, painfully, we rebuilt. Months later, as we tucked Sophia in together, he whispered, “Thank you for giving me a second chance. I’ll never waste it.”

And for the first time since that airport, I believed him.