Receiving an email from my ex-husband’s new wife was the last thing I expected, especially one with a bill attached. The list of “expenses caused by me” left me stunned, but I wasn’t going to let her audacity go unanswered.

Two years had passed since my divorce from Matt, and I thought I had moved on.

That was until Stephanie, Matt’s new wife, decided to invoice me for everything she believed I had damaged in Matt’s life.

Let’s just say, I refused to pay a single penny, but I did craft a response she wouldn’t forget.

After Matt and I separated, I cherished my independence.

I took pleasure in my small home, my familiar routines, and the tranquility I found.

Post-divorce, I worked on rebuilding my world, a step I should have considered long before our wedding.

Reflecting on it now, it’s clear why our marriage crumbled.

Matt and I differed in every essential way.

While I was seeking a partner, Matt was more like seeking someone to care for him. The honeymoon enchantment faded quickly, leading to stark realizations.

We met through a mutual friend, and initially, Matt seemed like the full package: stable job, engaging smile, and what looked like responsibility.

Our dating phase felt like a dream. Or rather, an illusion.

The first visit to his place was a revelation. It was immaculate and everything had its place.

“Impressive organization,” I noted, truly impressed.

Matt responded with pride, “I like keeping things tidy. It’s just part of who I am.”

I wish I had known then what I know now.

That initial phase showcased his best, with romantic dates, sweet messages, and thoughtful gestures that made me believe I was lucky.

Reality struck post-marriage when we started living together.

The first clue was his wet towel habit, left on the floor.

At first, it seemed amusing.

“Matt, your towel,” I’d remind, as I picked it up.

He’d say with a grin, “Sorry, I’ll be more careful.”

But he wasn’t.

It escalated to more than just towels. Dirty clothes found their way to the bed, dishes overflowed in the sink, and unfinished projects were prevalent everywhere.

My reminders and his apologies became habitual, yet nothing changed.

One evening, while I watched him engrossed in video games, I pondered, Is this really my life now?

It was akin to living with a teenager.

Matters worsened with his job loss, citing missed deadlines and ignored meetings.

“The job was overly strict anyway,” he shrugged off. “I’ll find something better.”

But he didn’t.

Instead, he dabbled in side gigs yielding minimal income. Meanwhile, I bore the brunt of financial responsibilities, household chores, and frankly, his entire life management.

I scheduled his doctor visits, reminded him to contact his mom, and even redid his resume when he neglected it.

After a late-night clean-up session, searching online for advice on handling an irresponsible adult man brought an epiphany.

I wasn’t his wife; I was his caretaker.

Our separation was mutual. Or so I believed.

We divided our assets, I relocated, thinking that was the end.

Matt swiftly moved on to Stephanie, wedding her last summer.

Stephanie, let me say, is quite… bold.

She’s one of those social media enthusiasts who post about “queen energy” and empowerment, often a veil for her pettiness.

Our paths didn’t cross much. Our main interaction occurred pre-wedding.

Receiving a wedding invitation from Matt and Stephanie was unexpected since Matt and I hadn’t communicated post-divorce. I wasn’t attending, so I RSVP’d no.

Then Stephanie called, which shocked me.

Curiosity made me answer.

“Hello, Emma! It’s Stephanie,” she gushed cheerfully. “Am I disturbing you?”

“Uh… no,” I replied, curious. “What’s going on?”

“Could you help by sending photos of you and Matt from when you were together? They’ll be part of the wedding slideshow for his ‘journey in love.’”

I nearly dropped my phone. “Excuse me?”

“Also, any insights on his likes, like favorite meals or hobbies, would really personalize my vows.”

Was she really asking me this?

“I don’t think that’s suitable,” I told her, holding my composure. “Best wishes on your wedding.”

That should’ve been a signal to cut ties with her, yet curiosity kept me following the drama.

Their wedding, as reported, was exact—grandiose and overly dramatic.

Although absent, friends recounted the event details, revealing the spectacle.

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The maid of honor remarked with veiled comparisons to me in her speech.

“Matt has found a true partner,” she toasted with zeal to Stephanie.

The slideshow featured an awkward “before and after” view of Matt’s life, painting his time with me as bleak compared to colorful Stephanie.

To me, it was more embarrassing for them.

After these reports, I thought my role in their saga was over. They’d continue, and so would I.

But then came the email: Invoice for Outstanding Expenses.

At first, I imagined it was spam.

But upon opening it, reality struck.

It wasn’t spam.

It was Stephanie’s thoroughly itemized bill, addressing expenses I supposedly caused during my marriage to Matt.

I was blindsided.

The bill included:

$300 for eye care: “You neglected his vision decline.”

$2,500 wardrobe upgrade: “His old style was a sign of neglect.”

$200 for therapy: “To heal from your emotional neglect.”

$500 for fitness coaching: “To rebuild self-esteem after being ignored.”

$1,000 for a mattress: “To remedy back pain from your purchase.”

$100 for a meal planning course: “Only after you taught him nutrition.”

The grand total exceeded $5,000.

She capped it with a note suggesting her heavy investment in Matt warranted my aid.

In disbelief, I wondered if this was a prank. Who charges their partner’s ex-wife like this?

I resolved to not let it be.

While avoiding payment, I aimed to respond memorably.

Initially, I typed an indignant reply, critiquing her absurd claims. Then I reconsidered: Too simple. Let’s do this differently.

I decided on humor.

Sitting at my computer, I carefully constructed a counter-invoice. Writing it was immensely gratifying.

Here’s a glimpse:

Subject: Response to Invoice for Outstanding Expenses

Dear Stephanie,

Your email was a delight! I appreciate the effort, yet need to clarify some points and include overlooked charges.

Regarding the eye doctor, Matt avoided it to evade “nerd” stigma. Thankfully you managed it.

Tackling his wardrobe, ah yes. His graphic tees, specifically “Taco Tuesday Is My Religion,” were dear to him. I chose not to contest his fashion.

On therapy, it’s commendable he pursued self-bettering, belatedly though. Hopefully, his therapist is tackling his toilet seat fears.

The mattress? With integrated cup holders—it was his fantasy buy for “gaming nights.” I’m glad there’s now comfort involved.

The meal course? The extent of knowledge required for healthy eating surprises me. Perhaps a coach for dishwashing lessons next time?

As expenses mount, here’s my own:

$10,000 for uninterrupted household duties during his gaming binges.

$15,000 for emotional labor—nudges for family care, bill payments, dental visits.

$5,000 for hearing his business plans, like pizza topping matchmaking apps.

Total: $30,000.

Due by next Friday.

Warm regards,

Your predecessor

After sending, I decided to include mutual friends for fun.

The response was electric—messages and calls declared my email legendary and frame-worthy.

Stephanie, naturally, was less amused. Her attempts at justification only worsened her standing. She claimed her goal was to prevent Matt’s past baggage.

Eventually, Matt reached out.

“Emma… I’m sorry,” was his weary apology, the first I’d ever received.

“No worries, Matt,” I replied, “Just ensure that invoice’s settled.”

At a friend’s gathering weeks later, someone jested if Matt had resolved my “emotional labor” bill.

His crimson face and abrupt exit were the cherry on top.

Now, whenever Stephanie’s name surfaces, someone quips, “Oh, her, with the bill?”

In all honesty? I wouldn’t change a thing.