I stared at the phone, his smug voice echoing: “So, how’s life without my money?” I hung up, heart pounding—not with pain, but fury. He left me and our son Timmy (5) with nothing but a bare mattress. Curtains? Gone. Savings? Drained. He flaunted his new girlfriend, parading our stolen life on social media.
I cried once. Then I got smart.
By day, I waitressed double shifts, charming tips from truckers and moms. Nights, Timmy asleep on that mattress, I built an online thrift empire—flipping vintage finds from garage sales. My secret? Live sales on a burner account, “Curtainless Queen.” Followers loved my grit; sales exploded.
Six months in, I hired Lila, a single mom, to pack orders. We split profits 50/50. A year later, we launched “Rebound Rags”—curated secondhand luxury. Brands noticed; collabs rolled in.
He called again, whining child support. I transferred funds from my new account—six figures. “Keep the change,” I texted.
Now? Timmy has a bunk bed with superhero curtains I designed. We live in a cozy loft above our warehouse. Last week, his girlfriend messaged, begging for “old times.” I posted our billboard: “Curtainless No More—Sold Out Collection.”
His final text: “You won.”
Damn right.
