My name is Cora, and for three years, I was in love with a man named Randy. Or, more accurately, I was in love with the potential of a man named Randy. The real man was a different story altogether.
We met when my apartment flooded. He was the plumber assigned to fix the damage, and he kept “finding” new problems that required him to come back. I thought it was cute, a way for him to see me more. Looking back, I question if he deliberately messed with my pipes.
Things were great at first. He was easy to talk to, a rare thing for me. We moved in together after eight months because his lease was ending and it just made sense financially—a phrase that would come to define our relationship. Randy struggled with consistent income. He’d get fired for being late or quit because his bosses were, in his words, “total morons who didn’t appreciate his skills.” This was red flag number one, which I completely ignored.
Over the years, he would constantly send me these long, angry voice messages on Telegram, ranting about his bosses and his parents. He’d call his dad a “pathetic excuse for a man” and his mom a woman who “couldn’t think for herself.” I remember feeling so uncomfortable listening to them, but for some reason, I saved them. I added them to my favorites folder, a subconscious archivist of his cruelty. Maybe I knew, even then, that they’d matter someday.
By year two, I was covering most of our expenses. My job isn’t amazing, but it’s stable. I told myself that relationships are about balance, that I was just carrying the weight until he got on his feet. He always promised things would turn around. He just needed one good opportunity.
Six months ago, his 2015 Mustang broke down. It was a car way beyond his means, but it was his “dream.” He was devastated, claiming he needed reliable transportation for work. So, I stupidly offered to help. I ended up taking over the entire loan: $386 a month, a huge stretch for me. I just wanted to be supportive. I thought maybe this would be the thing that finally helped him get stable.
Last night was our three-year anniversary. A week ago, I had made the final payment on his car. I made reservations at a nice downtown restaurant we’d always talked about trying. I spent ages getting ready—new dress, hair done, the whole nine yards.
I arrived at 7:00 p.m. for our reservation. Randy texted that he was running late. By 7:30, I’d texted three times with no response. By 8:00, I’d called twice, both times going straight to voicemail. The waitress kept giving me these pitying looks, asking if I wanted to reschedule. I was so embarrassed, but I kept saying, “He’s just running late,” while checking my phone every two minutes.
At 8:45 p.m.—yes, I had been sitting there alone for almost two hours—I was about to give up. That’s when Randy finally walked in, not alone, but with four of his friends in tow. They were all laughing, clearly already buzzed.
He strolled over to my table, looked at his friends, and said, loud enough for the nearby tables to hear, “See? Told you she’d still be here. Like a pathetic puppy. Two hours and she didn’t leave.”
They all burst out laughing. One of his friends, Jake, who I’ve always thought was a total jerk, added, “Damn, you weren’t kidding. She’s trained good.”
More laughter. Randy then plopped down next to me, squeezed my cheeks between his fingers like I was a child, and said, “This is why she’s the best. Most chicks would have stormed out. But my Cora? She pays my bills and waits around like a good girl.”
He looked at me with this disgusting smirk. “Aww, did you think this was going to be some romantic dinner? That’s adorable. We have a poker game after this. I just needed to make sure you were good for the next car payment first.” When I didn’t respond, he grabbed my chin roughly. “Hello? Earth to Cora. God, you’re pathetic sometimes. Say something.”
His friends thought this was hilarious. I literally couldn’t breathe. Three years. I had just paid off his car. And this is what he thought of me. This is what he told his friends. I was a pathetic doormat he could treat however he wanted.
The server came over, looking deeply uncomfortable. I remember smiling somehow and saying, “Actually, I’d like another glass of wine first.” Randy and his friends ordered a round of expensive appetizers and drinks, making more jokes about my patience. Randy even pointed at me and told the server, “Don’t worry about bringing her food, though. She’s watching her figure.”
After my wine arrived, I took a long sip, placed it down carefully, and said I needed to use the restroom. Randy barely acknowledged me.
In the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t even angry yet. I was just… done. Three years of making excuses for him, three years of carrying us financially, three years of ignoring red flags. This was the real him.
That’s when I made a decision. I wasn’t going to make a scene. No crying, no yelling. Randy deserved something much more calculated.
I opened Telegram and scrolled through all those saved voice messages. The ones where he trashed his boss as incompetent and his parents as pathetic failures. I had dozens of them. I texted my friend Emma, who lives nearby, and asked if she could pick me up in ten minutes.
I went back to the table, smiled at everyone, and excused myself again, saying I needed to make a quick call about a work emergency. As I walked out, I stopped by the server and quietly paid for my two glasses of wine, and only my wines. “The gentleman will be covering the rest,” I said.
I walked out, got into Emma’s car, and blocked Randy’s number before he could even realize I was gone. But I didn’t just block his number. I had a plan forming. See, over the years, I’d helped him with countless tech issues. I had access to his email, his cloud accounts, his banking app to make those car payments. I knew exactly how information could be shared most efficiently.
When we got to Emma’s apartment, I finally broke down. Ugly crying, mascara everywhere, the whole thing. After I vented for two hours, my phone started blowing up with texts from Randy. First angry, then fake concern, then long paragraphs about how I was “overreacting to a joke.” Classic gaslighting.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I made a list of all the accounts I had access to: his email, his Instagram, his iCloud, his banking app. I realized with a jolt how much of his digital life he had entrusted to me. For the first time in our relationship, I felt like I had some control.
The next morning, after maybe three hours of sleep, I started my plan.
First, the car. I logged into his banking app and saw that the final payment I had made was still processing. I immediately called the bank, explained that I needed to cancel a payment due to fraud, and provided screenshots of texts where Randy admitted the car was solely his. I even mentioned I had voice recordings of him bragging about how I was paying for it. The bank reversed the payment.
While dealing with the bank, Randy called fifteen times, leaving increasingly desperate voicemails. Around noon, I decided to check his other accounts. I wasn’t planning to do anything malicious, but I was curious.
And y’all, I found everything.
There were dozens of texts between Randy and his friends, planning the whole restaurant thing. They had been discussing it for days. “Can’t wait to see her face,” Jake had texted. Randy had replied, “She’ll probably just sit there and take it like always.”
It gets worse. I found emails with a girl from his work named Amber. Flirty emails, with pictures, dating back months. One from just last week had the subject line “After work?” with a winky face emoji.
Then I found it. A recording in his Google Drive, a call with Jake from three months ago. I heard them laughing about how I was basically his “Sugar Mama,” and how he was just “keeping me around until something better comes along.” He had been laughing behind my back the entire time.
The rage that filled me was cold and clear. I made another list.
- Send voice clips to his boss.
- Send voice clips to his parents.
- Cancel all shared subscriptions.
- Pack up his stuff.
- Change my locks.
The voice messages were easy. I had them all saved. I created a new Telegram account using a temporary number. I found his boss’s contact info in Randy’s email and sent the clips of Randy calling him an incompetent idiot. I did the same with his parents, sending them the clips where he called them pathetic failures. I didn’t add any commentary, just a simple message: “Thought you should hear how Randy talks about you when you’re not around.”
Next, I logged into our shared Netflix and Spotify accounts—both of which I paid for—and changed the passwords. It felt so good to systematically remove him from my digital life.
Then came the hard part: packing his stuff. I started with his clothes, stuffing them into garbage bags without folding them. Seven bags just for clothes and shoes. As I was halfway through the bathroom, my doorbell rang.
It was Randy. He was standing there, looking sad, holding flowers. I didn’t answer. He rang again, then started knocking, then calling, then yelling through the door about how I was being childish. After about twenty minutes, one of my neighbors must have threatened to call security, because he finally left, but not before sliding a note under my door. “I’m sorry about last night. It was supposed to be a joke.”
I went back to packing with renewed determination. By 6 p.m., I had everything of his in fifteen garbage bags by the door. Three years of a relationship, reduced to fifteen bags of trash.
That’s when my phone pinged. An email from the bank: the payment reversal was approved. Almost immediately after, a frantic text from Randy: “Why is there a tow truck at my apartment? What did you do to my car?!” I didn’t respond, but I did smile. A lot.
Around 8 p.m., my phone exploded. Randy’s boss had received the voice clips and called him into a meeting. From the desperate texts Randy sent, it didn’t go well. He was put on probation. His parents also received their clips and called him in tears. His mom was hysterical, and his dad wouldn’t even speak to him.
The next morning, I woke up to a scratching sound at my door. I checked my doorbell cam. It was Randy, sitting on the floor, looking completely wrecked. He was sliding little notes under my door, one by one. “Please talk to me.” “I need my stuff for work.” “My car is gone.” “I’m sleeping in Jake’s car.”
Part of me felt a tiny bit bad. For about three seconds. Then I remembered sitting alone in that restaurant.
I collected the notes as evidence and went to make coffee. As I was sipping my sad instant coffee, my phone rang. It was Randy’s mom. She sounded upset, but not angry. She thanked me for opening her eyes and asked if we could talk sometime. She was deeply ashamed of her son’s behavior.
When I was ready to leave for Emma’s, the doorbell rang again. It was Jake. He started talking through the door, saying Randy was a “broken man” and that I needed to stop this “revenge game.” Then he claimed he was never at the restaurant and had no idea what Randy did. I checked the doorbell cam later; he was filming the whole time, probably trying to get me to say something he could use against me.
That night at Emma’s, she suggested something that made me gasp. “What if we just take all his stuff to the dump?”
It seemed extreme. But then I remembered the emails, the planned humiliation, the cheating, the three years of supporting him while he laughed behind my back.
So, the next morning, Emma borrowed her brother’s truck. We loaded up all fifteen bags. I checked one last time to make sure there were no important documents. I’m not a monster. Then we drove to the local dump. Watching the garbage truck compact all his designer clothes and stupid video game collectibles was surprisingly therapeutic.
As we were driving back, Randy called from a number I didn’t recognize. I didn’t answer, but he left a message. His voice was frantic. His car had been repossessed. He needed his stuff from my place to at least have something to wear to work tomorrow. Too late, Randy. Too late.
The next day, a mutual friend, Damon, called. Randy had been telling everyone a completely different story: that I had gone psycho after a “tiny joke,” hacked his accounts, stolen money, and destroyed his possessions out of “female hysteria.” He was painting himself as the victim.
I told Damon everything, playing him one of the voice clips where Randy called me his “personal ATM.” There was a long silence. Then, “Holy… he’s been lying to all of us.”
The dominoes were still falling. I got an email from Randy’s HR department, asking me to provide information about his professional conduct. I sent them three of the worst voice messages. A few days later, his Instagram had a cryptic post about unemployment.
Then, I ran into his mom at the grocery store. She thanked me again, telling me she and his dad had been supporting him financially for years without realizing he was mocking them. The down payment on the car? It was from them.
I changed the locks. I changed my number. The chaos started to fade.
It’s been six months since the restaurant incident. I moved to a cuter, smaller apartment across town. And I got a cat. Her name is Karma, and she’s a sassy tortoiseshell who absolutely hates men. My soul sister.
I’ve been saving the money that used to go to Randy’s Mustang. It’s added up to over $2,300. I’m using some of it for a solo trip to Portland next month.
As for Randy, his mom still texts me occasionally. He lost his job completely. He moved back in with his parents, but that didn’t last. He’s now crashing on various friends’ couches, though that circle has shrunk dramatically. His car was sold at auction for less than what was owed, so he’s still making payments on a car he doesn’t have. And Amber, the girl from his work, is now his girlfriend. From what I hear, it’s super toxic. I genuinely hope she figures it out faster than I did.
I added up what I spent on Randy over our three years together. Between the car, the rent, the dates, and the “loans,” it came to over $30,000. That’s a down payment on a house.
But I’m not sad about the money. I’m not even angry anymore. My closure came when I walked out of that restaurant six months ago. Everything since then has just been confirmation that I made the right choice. When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time
