Caught My Wife Cheating On Me With a Guy, So I Filed for Divorce & Started Dating Someone New, but..

Caught my wife cheating on me with a guy, so I filed for divorce and started dating someone new. But my ex-wife stalked us, then tried to kill us with her car. Hey, Reddit! I've been a long-time lurker, but today I finally have my own story to share. I've wanted to post this for months now, but honestly, my life has been such a mess that I barely had time to breathe, let alone write about it. Now that everything's finally settled, I can share what happened to me, and maybe it'll help someone else avoid the same

situation. Let me introduce myself: I'm a 36-year-old guy who was married to Carolyn (35F) for what I thought would be forever, but it ended up being 6 years of my life I'll never get back. Our marriage wasn't terrible; at least that's what I kept telling myself. We met through Instagram, and I actually thought I'd hit the jackpot. She was gorgeous, funny, and seemed perfect. I was extra careful about watching for red flags because my childhood was pretty messed up. My mom was seriously abusive to my dad; I'm talking screaming matches at 3:00 AM, plates flying

across the room, and my dad just taking it all because he loved us and didn't want to leave. So you can bet I was on high alert while dating Carolyn. I spent 2 years analyzing every little thing she did—watching how she treated waiters, how she handled stress, how she dealt with money—basically everything you're supposed to check before committing to someone. Honestly, she passed every single test with flying colors. She was patient, kind, generous—everything my mom wasn't. So I thought I'd done my homework, vetted her properly, and found myself a good woman. I even remember telling

my best friend that I'd finally broken the cycle of abuse in my family. Man, was I wrong about that one, but I'll get to that part later. We had this beautiful wedding, bought a nice little house in the suburbs, and started what I thought would be our happily ever after. Little did I know, I was walking straight into a nightmare—just a different kind than what I'd grown up with. Things started going downhill about 2 years in—and I mean really going downhill. We went from being the couple everyone envied to having these massive blowout fights every

month, like clockwork. It was always over the stupidest things too—dishes in the sink, me working late, her spending too much time with her friends, or even what TV shows we'd watch. I was busting my ass trying to keep our marriage together because I genuinely believed we could fix things. I mean, this was the woman who used to leave little notes in my lunchbox and surprise me with weekend trips. I couldn't understand how we'd gone from that to her screaming at me because I bought the wrong brand of coffee. I'm the type of guy who believes

in fixing things instead of throwing them away, so I suggested couples therapy. Actually, I begged for it. I found this really good therapist who specialized in married couples, made all the appointments, and even paid for it out of my own pocket since Carolyn said it was my idea and my expense. We went to exactly one session, and holy crap, what a disaster that turned out to be. The therapist started pointing out some communication issues, suggesting that maybe Carolyn's way of handling conflict wasn't healthy. She absolutely lost it—started crying, said the therapist was attacking her, and

refused to ever go back. She called the therapist a quack and said I was trying to make her look crazy. Later, I found out her dad had died right before the fight started getting bad. I tried to be understanding about that—grief does weird things to people—but she wouldn't talk about it, wouldn't get help, just kept getting angrier and more distant. She never got physical or broke stuff, but man, her screaming matches could wake up the whole neighborhood. Our neighbors actually called the cops once because they thought someone was being murdered. It was just Carolyn yelling

about me forgetting to pick up her dry cleaning. Eventually, we fell into this weird routine where we were basically just roommates who occasionally had sex. We'd wake up, go to work, come home, eat dinner while watching TV, and go to bed—rinse and repeat. The fights got less frequent, but only because we barely talked anymore. I was still stupidly in love with her, though. Isn't that pathetic? I kept thinking about our early days, convinced myself that if we just tried hard enough we could get back there. I believed in our marriage vows—that whole "for better or

worse" thing. I guess I forgot that "forsaking all others" was part of those vows too, but I'll get to that part. Maybe I should have seen the warning signs, but I was raised to believe that marriage is sacred. Unless someone's getting hit or cheated on, you stick it out and work on it. Well, turns out one of those deal-breakers was just around the corner, and I had no idea what was coming. Let me set the scene for you all about how everything fell apart: I work this boring corporate job; nothing fancy, just your typical mid-level

position pushing papers and attending endless meetings—the kind where you're important enough to travel but not important enough to fly first class. I had been sent to this business expo in another state, supposed to be there for 4 days, schmoozing with clients and pretending to care about PowerPoint presentations. Here's where my life decided to take a massive dump on me: 3 days into the expo, our office back home had some major crisis—something about servers crashing and losing client data. Typical corporate emergency stuff. My boss called everyone back early, and being the dedicated employee I am—or maybe

just an idiot, you decide—I immediately booked the first flight home. I had this stupid romantic idea in my head: you know those movies where the husband surprises his wife and they have this magical reunion? Yeah, I actually thought that would happen. I spent my entire Uber ride from the airport planning this surprise, stopped at this fancy florist, and dropped $80 on her favorite flowers—these expensive purple orchids she always said reminded her of our first date. I even grabbed some wine and those fancy chocolates she likes. I was thinking maybe this could be our fresh start;

we’d been so distant lately, just going through the motions, and I thought this spontaneous gesture might remind her of why she fell in love with me in the first place. I got home around 2 p.m., feeling like the world’s best husband with my flowers and chocolates. The house looked normal; her car was in the driveway, which made sense since she worked from home on Thursdays. I remember noticing some weird things, though, like her favorite playlist was blasting from upstairs, which she only ever played when she was in a really good mood. There were two wine

glasses in the sink, but I figured she’d had a friend over for lunch or something. God, I was so naive. I walked straight upstairs to our bedroom, excited to surprise her. The music was getting louder, and I could hear some other noises too, but my brain wasn’t processing what they meant. You know that moment in horror movies where everyone’s screaming at the character not to open the door? I was that character. I turned the doorknob, pushed open the door to my own bedroom, and my entire world imploded. Every single happy memory, every moment of trust,

every "I love you"—all of it turned to ash in that single second. What I saw in that bedroom will be burned into my brain until the day I die. There was my wife, the woman I’d spent six years loving, supporting, and building a life with, underneath some random dude in our bed—the same bed where we talked about having kids someday, the same bed where I’d held her when her father died. She wasn’t even trying to be quiet about it, just going at it like I didn’t even exist, like our marriage meant absolutely nothing. The flowers

I bought dropped to the floor as I stood there, like a complete idiot, watching them scramble like cockroaches when you turn on the lights. The guy—and I’ll never forget this—had the nerve to try and just run past me like I was some kind of doormat. He was frantically trying to put on his clothes, dropping stuff everywhere, and I just snapped. Maybe it was seeing him with my wife, or maybe it was how he thought he could just walk away from destroying my marriage, but something in me broke. Before I even realized what I was doing,

my hand was around his throat—not squeezing to kill him or anything, but definitely letting him know he wasn’t just walking out of there. I actually ended up slapping him—not punching him like you’d expect, just two open-handed slaps across his face like some dramatic housewife in a soap opera. Even now, I don’t know why I didn’t just punch him instead. The guy’s face went from scared to angry real quick, like he was actually going to try and fight me in my own house after I caught him with my wife. Can you believe the audacity? The absolute

disrespect! I bet he didn’t even know Carolyn was married; she probably fed him some story about being single or separated. He probably thought I was some crazy ex-boyfriend or something. I let him go before things could escalate further, not because I was scared, but because in that moment, I realized this pathetic excuse of a man wasn’t worth catching an assault charge over. He wasn’t the one who made vows to me. He wasn’t the one who promised to love and cherish me till death do us part; he was just another dick who couldn’t keep it in

his pants. The real betrayal was still in that bedroom, probably thinking about how to lie her way out of this one. When I turned back to face Carolyn, my whole body was shaking. There she was, the woman I’d given everything to for six years, fumbling with her bra like this was just some minor inconvenience in her day. The purple orchids I’d bought were scattered across the floor, probably crushed under that guy’s feet as he ran out. I just stood there, watching her fix herself up in the mirror—the same mirror I’d hung up for her last

Christmas because she said it had better lighting. She was taking her sweet time too, like she hadn’t just nuked our entire marriage—just casually smoothing down her hair, avoiding my eyes in the reflection, acting like she hadn’t just destroyed everything we’d built together. You want to know what this woman, who I caught literally in the act of cheating, had the balls to say to me? She looked at me with this annoyed expression, like I’m some door-to-door salesman who interrupted her day, and goes, “Why are you even back?” Not “I’m sorry,” or “I can explain,” or any

of that basic human decency stuff. Nope, she was actually irritated that I had the audacity to come home early and catch her cheating in our bed—in our house that we bought together, that I paid the majority of the mortgage on. I’ve never wanted to hit someone so badly in my life; my hand was actually twitching, remembering how good it felt to slap her partner, but I just stood. There I was, paralyzed, while she had the nerve to mutter under her breath, "You weren't supposed to be back!" Like this was somehow my fault, like I was

the one who did something wrong by coming home early, like I should have called ahead to schedule a convenient time to catch her cheating. The absolute audacity of this woman! Six years of marriage, and this is what it meant to her: a minor inconvenience in her afternoon of fun. You know what's really messed up? I could see our wedding photo right there on the nightstand while all this was happening—the same nightstand where she'd put the breakfast in bed I made her just last weekend, the same room where she'd been telling me she was too tired

for sex for the past three months. Meanwhile, she clearly had plenty of energy for this random dude. I just stood there like an idiot, my mind racing through every late night at work she'd told me about, every girls' night out, every time she said she was visiting her mom. How long had this been going on? How many other men had been in my bed? I was about to find out because Carolyn wasn't done talking yet—not by a long shot. And then this woman, this absolute piece of work, completely lost it. She started screaming at me

like I was the one who had just blown up our marriage. "You weren't supposed to be back!" she shrieked, her face getting all red and blotchy like it did during our fights. "This is your fault! If you had just told me you were coming home, you would never have seen this!" The mental gymnastics this woman was pulling would have won her an Olympic gold medal! She actually had the nerve to blame me for catching her cheating. But wait, it gets better. "I asked you for an open relationship, and you said no!" she screamed, like that

somehow made what she did okay. Yeah, she had asked me once during a drunk conversation six months ago, and I had said no because I believed in monogamy. Apparently, in her twisted mind, that meant she should just go ahead and do it anyway. "I have needs!" she kept yelling, like I was some kind of monster for expecting basic loyalty from my wife. "I tried to do things without hurting you!" The absolute insanity of that statement! She tried to feign concern for me—how considerate of her. Something in me snapped. Six years of love, trust, and dedication

reduced to "I have needs"? Every kiss, every "I love you," every moment we shared— all fake. I crossed that room in three steps, my hand shaking with rage. I grabbed her by the collar of that shirt, the same shirt I bought her for her birthday last month, and raised my fist. I wanted to hurt her like she hurt me. I wanted her to feel something—anything—that matched the pain tearing through my chest. But then I saw the fear in her eyes—real, genuine fear. And even though she just destroyed everything I believed in, even though she'd just

shown me that our entire marriage was a lie, I couldn't do it. I'm not that guy. I refuse to be that guy. My mom used to look at my dad with that same fear, and I swore I'd never put that look on anyone's face. So I let go of her shirt and stepped back, my fists still clenched but lowered. The dark part of me still wishes I had given into that rage just to make her feel a fraction of my pain, but I'm glad I didn't—not because she didn't deserve it, but because I deserved better

than becoming what I always feared. There I was, standing in my own bedroom, surrounded by crushed purple orchids, staring at this stranger wearing my wife's face. Six years of marriage, and this was how it ended—with her blaming me for catching her cheat. The woman who used to kiss me goodbye every morning was now standing there telling me it was my fault for not calling ahead to schedule my discovery of her affair. The second I let go of her shirt, this woman switched personalities faster than a TV channel. Suddenly, she wasn't scared anymore—no, now she was

the victim in all this. "You were going to hit me?" Really? she screamed at my back as I walked away. "This is exactly why I don't love you anymore! You're not even a real man!" She kept going, her voice following me down the hallway, spewing every insult she could think of. Six years of marriage, and she was trying to provoke me into becoming the bad guy in this story. Real convenient how she went from trembling in fear to screaming insults at the guy she just claimed was about to hit her. It wasn't until I talked

to my buddy later that night that it clicked—she wanted me to hit her! Can you believe that? She wanted me to snap and give her something she could use against me, turning herself from the cheating wife into the abused spouse. Probably had it all planned out—she'd run to the cops with a bruised face, cry about her abusive husband, and walk away with half my stuff and monthly alimony checks. The same woman who used to bring me soup when I was sick was now trying to bait me into domestic violence. The manipulation was almost impressive, in

a sick sort of way. I had to get out of that house. The whole place reeked of betrayal—and I mean that literally. Their perfumes and colognes were mixed together in our bedroom, on our sheets, in our air. The same bed where I'd held her through anxiety attacks was now tainted with another man's scent. I grabbed my wallet and keys and just drove. I ended up at my friend Mark's place. Thank God for Mark; he took one look at my face and broke out the whiskey. Mark's been divorced before, so he knew exactly what I was

in for. He laid it out straight: I needed to lawyer up ASAP. But here's the kicker: I was making six figures while Carolyn was working part-time at some boutique, basically playing at having a career. In my state, that meant I was looking at paying this cheating woman alimony—the same woman who just had another man in our bed might get to drain my bank account every month. The justice system's funny like that; you can be the one who gets cheated on and the one who has to pay for it. But Mark, smart bastard that he is,

pointed out that infidelity could change the alimony calculations. "Document everything," he told me—every text, every email, every receipt; anything that proved she was stepping out on me. Finally, some good news in this show! Maybe I wouldn't have to bankroll her affair partner's dates after all! Still, my head was spinning. Just this morning, I'd been a happily married man planning a surprise for my wife. Now, I was sitting in my friend's living room, Googling divorce lawyers and trying not to throw up every time I remembered what I'd walked in on. There was absolutely no way I

was going to try and fix things with her. I might be dumb enough to buy expensive flowers for a cheating wife, but I'm not stupid enough to forgive one. While I was sitting at Mark's place trying to process everything, my phone started blowing up. Carolyn had apparently decided that since she couldn't manipulate me in person, she'd try to break me down through text messages instead. And holy— you guys wouldn't believe the stuff this woman sent me! This was a woman who just last week had sent me cute little heart emojis and "I love you" texts.

Now, she was sending me detailed comparisons of my manhood versus her affair partner's! She actually took the time to write out in explicit detail how much better he was in bed than me—how he could satisfy her in ways I never could, how she'd been faking it with me for years! She sent me a whole damn novel about all my sexual inadequacies, complete with size measurements and performance reviews, like she was writing a Yelp review for a bad restaurant! She even had the nerve to tell me that her guy had ruined her for other men, as

if I was going to want her back after catching her cheating in our own bed! But the best part? She was absolutely livid that I'd ruined her good thing! Can you believe that? She was mad at me for interrupting her affair, like I should have given them privacy or something! Called me selfish for coming home early without warning her, said I'd destroyed her chance at real happiness! The mental gymnastics this woman was pulling would have impressed Olympic judges. Thank God Mark was there because he immediately told me to screenshot everything. "Document, document, document!" he kept

saying, and man was he right. Not even a minute after her epic rant about her amazing affair partner and my supposed shortcomings, I watched those little message bubbles start disappearing one by one. Guess she finally realized that confessing to adultery in writing might not be the smartest move when your husband makes three times what you do, and divorce is on the horizon. After she deleted all the evidence of her affair, she switched to just regular old insults, called me every name in the book, but carefully avoided any mention of her afternoon activities. It was actually

kind of impressive how quickly she went from bragging about her affair to pretending it never happened! Watching those messages disappear in real time was like watching someone try to clean up evidence at a crime scene. Too bad she didn't know I had screenshots of everything; she might have deleted the messages, but she couldn't delete the truth or the pictures of them that were now safely stored in my phone's camera roll, ready to show a divorce judge exactly why I shouldn't have to pay this woman a dime in alimony. Mark turned out to be a gold

mine of divorce advice that night. Between shots of whiskey, he walked me through everything I needed to do, from securing my bank accounts to collecting evidence. I barely slept that night; I just kept replaying everything in my head while scrolling through divorce lawyer reviews on my phone. The next two weeks were a blur of consultations with different attorneys. Some wanted retainers that cost more than my car, others seemed like they barely passed the bar exam. I finally found this guy, Lucas, who seemed to actually give a damn about my case and didn't require me to

sell a kidney to afford him. When I showed Lucas the screenshots of Carolyn's text meltdown, along with pictures of the state I found our bedroom in, he actually smiled and said we had a solid case to minimize or even eliminate alimony. But he was also realistic, warning me that judges in our state tend to favor the lower-earning spouse regardless of why the marriage ended. Still, he promised to fight tooth and nail for me. Honestly, just having someone in my corner who knew what they were doing felt like the first good thing to happen since this

nightmare started. Then came the fun part: serving Carolyn with divorce papers. You want to know what this woman did? She dodged the server for three weeks! Changed her schedule, pretended not to be home, even had her mom tell the server she'd moved to Florida! The server finally caught her coming out of a yoga class. Probably the only honest exercise she'd gotten in months. Even then, she took the full 30 days allowed by law to respond. Pure spite move; she knew exactly what she was doing, dragging everything out as long as possible because she knew I

was paying Lucas by the hour. And oh boy, once the proceedings actually started, Carolyn turned into the queen of petty. She forgot to bring required documents to meetings, showed up late to every single appointment, claimed she couldn't find bank statements that I knew she had, and demanded detailed inventories of everything in the house down to the last spoon. Her lawyer kept sending these ridiculous settlement proposals. She wanted the house, my 401k, and still wanted alimony on top of it all. The absolute audacity of this woman, who I caught cheating, asking for half my retirement savings.

The most infuriating part: we'd been separated for months at this point, and she was still seeing her affair partner. Yeah, I found that out through mutual friends—living her best life while deliberately trying to make mine as difficult as possible. Every time we got close to agreeing on something, she'd suddenly change her mind or come up with new demands. It was like she was getting some sick pleasure out of watching me waste money on legal fees. Each time Lucas had to respond to another one of her ridiculous proposals, I could practically hear her laughing all the

way to her boyfriend's bedroom. While Carolyn was doing her best to drag out the divorce and drain my bank account, I tried to get back into the dating scene. Not my proudest moment, but I went through a phase of hooking up with random women from dating apps. I downloaded Tinder, Bumble, all that stuff. I had a few one-night stands, trying to convince myself that this was what moving on looked like. But every morning after felt worse than the last. Each meaningless hookup just reminded me why I'd said no when Carolyn suggested an open relationship; that

lifestyle just wasn't me. I've always been the type of guy who wants to wake up next to the same person every morning, share inside jokes, and build a real connection. The whole casual sex scene made me feel empty inside, like I was trying to fill a hole with the wrong shape. I needed something else to occupy my mind besides work, divorce papers, and disappointing hookups. Before Carolyn came along and life got crazy with 60-hour work weeks and monthly screaming matches, I used to be a huge reader—like, stay up all night to finish a book kind

of reader. So one Saturday, instead of swiping through dating apps or checking my lawyer emails, I decided to visit this little indie bookstore downtown. You know the type: creaky wooden floors, that amazing old book smell, cats sleeping in the windows. I was standing in the sci-fi section, feeling completely lost because apparently, the entire genre had evolved while I was busy trying to save my marriage. I'm talking about these thick books with titles I couldn't even pronounce, series that were like 15 books long. I must have looked pretty pathetic, just staring at the shelves with this

confused look on my face, because this woman next to me actually laughed. Not in a mean way, just this soft, amused sound. She was holding this massive book that could have doubled as a weapon, and when I turned to look at her, she just smiled and asked if I needed help. I told her I was looking for some good sci-fi but had no idea where to start. Next thing I know, we're sitting in these comfy chairs in the corner, and she's giving me a crash course in modern science fiction. She was passionate about it too;

her eyes lit up when she talked about her favorite books, and she had this adorable habit of tucking her hair behind her ear when she got excited about a particular series. What started as a quick book recommendation turned into a two-hour conversation about everything from classic Asimov to modern space operas. She told me about this series she loved about parallel universes, and I shared stories about my old favorites from college. It was the first real conversation I'd had in months that didn't involve lawyers, divorce papers, or bad Tinder pickup lines. For those two hours, I

completely forgot about Carolyn and all the drama. I was just a guy talking about books with a beautiful woman who actually seemed interested in what I had to say. After our impromptu book club session, I finally worked up the courage to ask for her number. My hands were actually shaking while putting it in my phone—pretty pathetic for a 36-year-old man—but something about her just made me feel like a teenager again. I walked out of that bookstore with her number, her recommendation for "The Three-Body Problem," and the first genuine smile I’d had in months. I kept

rereading our text conversation that night, and it hit me how different it felt from all those empty Tinder messages. There was something real there. On our first real date, I knew I had to tell her about my ongoing divorce. I'd rehearsed this conversation in my head a dozen times, expecting her to run for the hills when I mentioned my psycho soon-to-be ex-wife. But Emma—yeah, that's her name—just took a sip of her wine and said, "I appreciate your honesty. We all have baggage, and at least you're dealing with yours." Just like that—no judgment, no weird looks,

no awkward attempts to change the subject. She even joked that dating a guy going through a divorce meant she'd never have to wonder if he was secretly married. Emma was like the anti-Carolyn in every way. Where Carolyn would scream during arguments, Emma would calmly discuss. Things where Carolyn demanded attention, Emma gave it freely. She was genuinely interested in my work, remembered little details about things I'd mentioned weeks ago, and never once made me feel bad about my divorce situation. For the first time in years, I felt seen and heard. The best part? I wasn't even

looking for her when we met—no dating apps, no setups from friends, just two people connecting over science fiction in a bookstore. You can't make this stuff up. Five months into dating, Emma and I were falling hard. Everything felt right with her: the way she'd send me book recommendations during work, how she'd leave little notes in the books she lent me, and the way she actually listened when I talked about my day. But Carolyn was still dragging out the divorce, throwing up roadblock after roadblock. Every time I thought we were close to finalizing it, she'd find

some new way to delay things—missing signatures, disputed assets, sudden remembered joint accounts; you name it, she tried it. Emma was incredibly patient through all of this. She never pressured me about the divorce or complained about being with a technically married man. She just held my hand through the frustrating calls with Lucas and reminded me that this too would pass. I was finally starting to feel happy again—really happy, not just pretending to be okay. Happy, of course, that's exactly when everything went completely off the rails. Emma and I had just had this perfect Saturday together. We'd

gotten lunch at this cute little café, done some shopping, and were heading back to her car in the mall parking lot. The sun was setting, and we were talking about what movie to watch that night. One second I'm listening to her laugh about something, and the next second my whole world explodes into chaos. I heard it before I saw it—this engine just screaming like someone had floored the gas pedal. When I turned towards the sound, there was this car barreling straight at us, but mainly aiming for Emma. Pure instinct kicked in, and I grabbed her

arm to yank her away, but I wasn't fast enough. The car clipped her leg, and I watched in horror as it just snapped. The sound of her bone breaking mixed with her scream is something that will haunt me forever. She collapsed onto the pavement, and I went down with her, trying to shield her body with mine. I had my phone out to call 911 when I heard tires screeching again. The car had smashed into another vehicle and was now backing up, engine still roaring. That's when I realized this wasn't an accident; this driver was trying

to hit us again. Emma was sobbing in pain, her leg bent at this horrible angle, and I knew if I didn't move her, we were both dead. I grabbed her under the arms and dragged her between two parked cars, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would explode. She was crying out in pain with every movement, but I had to keep going. The car charged forward again, smashing into the vehicles we'd just been hiding between. The crash was so violent it set off every car alarm in the vicinity. By this point, people were running

towards us from every direction, phones out, screaming—the whole parking lot was chaos: car alarms blaring, people yelling, Emma crying in pain next to me. That's when the driver's door opened, and I swear to God time just stopped because there was Carolyn, stepping out of the car like she was arriving for a dinner party. She looked exactly like she had the last time I'd seen her at our lawyer's office, except now she had this wild look in her eyes that I'd never seen before. She was wearing the same jacket she used to wear to work, her

hair done perfectly like always, looking for all the world like she hadn't just tried to murder two people in broad daylight. The complete disconnect between her normal appearance and what she'd just done made it even more terrifying. This wasn't some random road rage incident or drunk driver; this was my soon-to-be ex-wife, who had apparently been stalking us and decided that if she couldn't have me, she'd rather see me dead. And she didn't just try to kill me; she specifically aimed for Emma, who'd never done anything except make me happy again. Looking at Emma's broken leg,

hearing her whimpers of pain, something inside me snapped. This wasn't just about me and Carolyn anymore; she just tried to kill an innocent woman whose only crime was dating her soon-to-be ex-husband. I held Emma close, trying to keep her calm while also keeping one eye on Carolyn, terrified she might have a weapon or try to finish what she started. Watching Carolyn step out of that car was like watching someone transform into a monster right in front of me. This wasn't the woman I'd been married to for six years; this wasn't even the woman I'd caught

cheating in our bed. This was something else entirely—a rage-filled creature wearing my ex-wife's face. The reality of what just happened hit me like a ton of bricks. Carolyn had actually tried to murder us—not in a heat-of-the-moment thing, but in a premeditated, calculated way. She had to have followed us, waited for the right moment, and then deliberately tried to run us down in broad daylight. When she started walking toward us, her heels clicking on the pavement like some twisted countdown, I genuinely thought she was going to try to finish what the car hadn't managed to do.

Her face was completely blank except for her eyes; they were burning with this intense hatred I'd never seen before—not even during our worst fights. Thank God some guy... Built like a linebacker, she grabbed her before she could reach us. Even then, she kept trying to push forward like some rabid animal straining against a leash. I was holding Emma, trying to keep her calm and assess her injuries, but I couldn't take my eyes off Caroline. This woman had sat across from me at countless dinners, slept next to me for six years, talked about having kids together,

and now here she was, having just tried to murder me and my girlfriend in a shopping mall parking lot. The disconnect between those two versions of her was making my head spin. How do you process the fact that someone you once loved enough to marry had just tried to kill you? The cops showed up with their sirens blaring, followed by an ambulance. As they loaded Emma into it, she was in so much pain but still trying to smile at me to let me know she was okay. Caroline completely lost what was left of her mind.

As the officers were cuffing her, she started screaming at the top of her lungs, "It hasn't been a year, and you're already walking around with that!" The pure venom in her voice made everyone around us take a step back. Here she was, having just attempted murder in front of dozens of witnesses, and somehow in her twisted mind, she was the victim. The absolute insanity of it all hit me right then. This woman had cheated on me in our bed with some random guy; I literally walked in on her doing it. She's the one who broke

our marriage vows, who blamed me for catching her, who dragged out our divorce just to be spiteful, and now she's screaming about betrayal while being arrested for attempted murder. The mental gymnastics were Olympic-level. She destroyed our marriage by cheating, and now she was acting like I was the bad guy for moving on. Standing there in that chaotic parking lot, watching my ex-wife being stuffed into the back of a police car while still screaming obscenities, with my girlfriend's blood on my hands from where I tried to help her, I felt like I was living in some

twisted alternate reality. The woman I'd married, who used to make me breakfast on Sundays and send me cute text messages during work, had just tried to murder two people in cold blood. And the craziest part? She genuinely seemed to believe she was justified in doing it, like catching her cheating somehow made me the bad guy in this story. Every time I visited Emma in the hospital, I kept expecting her to tell me it was over. I mean, who could blame her? Five months into dating a guy and his psychotic soon-to-be ex-wife tries to turn her

into a hood ornament. That's not exactly the kind of baggage most people sign up for. Her leg was in this massive cast; she was facing months of physical therapy, and it was all because she had the misfortune of dating me. I couldn't even look her in the eye when I told her who the driver was. I just stared at the hospital floor and waited for the inevitable "I can't do this anymore." But Emma, she just reached for my hand and said, "Well, at least we know she'll have plenty of time to work on her road

rage in prison." She actually made a joke about it—this woman lying in a hospital bed with pins in her leg because my ex-wife tried to murder her was trying to make me feel better. When I asked her if she was sure she wanted to stay with me after all this, she looked at me like I was crazy. "What? You think I'm going to let her win? She's going to prison, and I'm going to walk again just fine! I'd say I'm coming out ahead in this one." The District Attorney's office was all over this case like

white on rice. Turns out multiple security cameras caught the whole thing in glorious HD. The footage was chilling; you could see Caroline's car circling the parking lot first, like a shark looking for prey. Then she parked for a while, just watching us. The DA said this was crucial because it proved premeditation. She didn't just happen to see us and snap; she stalked us, waited for the perfect moment, and deliberately tried to kill Emma. They had footage of her making at least three passes by our location before she finally gunned it straight at us. The security

footage was like something out of a horror movie. You could see the exact moment she spotted us, how she waited until we were in the perfect position, and then just floored it. The cameras caught everything: the initial hit that broke Emma's leg, Caroline backing up for another try, me dragging Emma between the cars. The DA said it was one of the clearest cases of attempted murder she'd ever seen. No room for temporary insanity or heat of passion defenses; this was cold, calculated attempted murder caught on multiple cameras from multiple angles. The craziest part? In the

footage, you can see her checking her makeup in the rearview mirror right before she tried to kill us, just casually fixing her lipstick like she was heading to a business meeting, not attempting a double homicide. The prosecutor said this was another nail in her coffin, showing she was completely aware and in control of what she was doing. She wasn't some woman who snapped in a jealous rage; she was someone who carefully planned to murder her ex-husband's new girlfriend and made sure her makeup was perfect for her mug shot. Afterward, the whole divorce process got put

on hold because apparently, trying to murder your ex's new girlfriend takes precedence over splitting up the china collection. I spent months going back and forth on what to do next. Forth between work, the hospital for Emma's recovery, and the courthouse, my boss was understanding at first, but after the tenth time I had to leave work for legal matters, I could tell his patience was wearing thin. I was burning through PTO like crazy, spending hours with prosecutors and basically living at the courthouse, all because my ex-wife couldn't handle the fact that I moved on after she

cheated. The trial itself was like watching a master class in how to send someone to prison. The prosecutors had this mountain of evidence that just kept growing. First, there were the security cameras—six different angles of Carolyn trying to turn Emma into roadkill. Then came the parade of witnesses; seemed like everyone in that parking lot had stuck around to give statements: the soccer mom who saw the whole thing while loading groceries, the teenager who recorded it all on his phone, the retired cop who grabbed Carolyn before she could finish what she started. One after another, they

all told the same story: this wasn't an accident; this was attempted murder in broad daylight. Emma was incredible on the stand. Even with her legs still in a cast, she told her story without breaking down, described how it felt to see the car coming, the pain of her legs snapping, the terror of realizing Carolyn was coming back for another try. I had to testify, too—tell the jury about finding Carolyn cheating, the divorce drama, the threatening texts, everything. Carolyn just sat there the whole time, trying to look remorseful, dabbing at her eyes with tissues. The jury

saw right through it. When the verdict came back, it was guilty on all counts: attempted murder, aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, reckless endangerment—the works. But then came the sentencing, and that’s when things got frustrating: 12 years—that’s all she got. 12 years for premeditated attempted murder, and she could get out even earlier with good behavior. The judge bought her “Oh, I’m so sorry; I wasn’t thinking clearly” act. She sat there crying about how she lost control and deeply regretted her actions. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there thinking about how she checked her makeup before trying to kill

us. The prosecutors tried to explain it to me: first-time offender, no prior record, showed remorse, blah blah blah. But come on, 12 years? She tried to murder two people in cold blood. She stalked us, planned it out, and would have tried a third time if that bystander hadn't stopped her. Emma could have died; I could have died; and Carolyn could be out in less than a decade if she plays nice in prison. The justice system's funny like that—you can try to murder someone in front of dozens of witnesses and still get less time than some

guy caught with drugs. But you know what really got me during the sentencing? Carolyn actually had the nerve to turn to us and apologize, saying she wasn't herself that day, as if there's ever a version of yourself where it's okay to try and murder people in a parking lot. Emma just stared her down the whole time, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response. 12 years might not be what we hoped for, but at least it meant 12 years where we didn’t have to look over our shoulders in parking lots. Funny how attempting murder

really changes a judge’s perspective on alimony. After the criminal trial, the divorce proceeding suddenly became incredibly simple. Carolyn had to attend via video link from prison, looking fantastic in her orange jumpsuit. Her lawyer tried to argue for some of my assets, but the judge shut that down real quick. Turns out judges aren’t super sympathetic to spouses who try to murder their ex’s new partners. The judge actually said, and I quote, “The court isn't in the business of rewarding attempted murderers with alimony.” She got exactly what she came into the marriage with: her clothes, her personal

items, and her prison commissary account. The look on her lawyer’s face when the judge denied every single one of their requests was priceless—no alimony, no share of my 401k, no claim to the house, nothing. All those months she spent dragging out the divorce, all those ridiculous demands and delayed meetings, and in the end, she played herself. If she hadn't tried to turn Emma into a speed bump, she might have actually gotten something in the divorce. Instead, she got a prison cell and divorce papers that basically said, "You get nothing." I couldn't stay in that apartment,

though—too many memories of walking in on her with that guy. Every time I walked through that bedroom door, I'd see them there. Emma and I found this great place closer to downtown. It's actually way nicer than my old apartment; it has this amazing view of the city and, most importantly, no ghost of my cheating ex-wife haunting the bedroom. Emma has fully recovered now; you can barely tell her leg was ever broken. She jokes that getting hit by a car was totally worth it because it got rid of my crazy ex forever. Dark humor, but hey,

whatever helps you cope with almost being murdered, right? Sometimes I wonder if I could have avoided all this. Maybe I should have seen the red flags when she started picking fights over nothing. Maybe I should have run for the hills when she refused to continue couples therapy. But honestly, crazy doesn’t always wave a big red flag; sometimes it hides behind a beautiful smile and whispered "I love you" until one day it tries to murder your girlfriend in a parking lot. At least now I can say I’m genuinely happy. Emma and I are talking about getting

married next spring; seems fitting since we met over science fiction books, and now we’re living our own crazy story with a happy ending. Sure, Carolyn will get out eventually, but that's what training orders are for. Plus, Emma's dad is a gun instructor and made sure we both got our Concealed Carry Permits just in case Carolyn decides to try for round two when she gets out. For anyone dealing with divorce or crazy exes, document everything, keep your guard up, and maybe avoid mall parking lots. And if you're dating someone new after a divorce, maybe do a

background check first, or at least make sure they're not the type to try and murder people over a breakup. Thanks for reading my crazy story, Reddit. Looking forward to reading all your comments, especially the car puns. Emma's personal favorite is, “Guess your ex-wife really drove that relationship into the ground.” Yes, Emma and I still shop at that bookstore. No, we don't park in that mall anymore. [Music]