At our wedding anniversary dinner, my wife said, "I'm not your property. I'm opening our marriage.

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We were at Romano's, the same restaurant where I'd proposed five years earlier. I'd specifically requested table twelve—our table—and had the waiter bring champagne at exactly 7:30, just like that night. Sarah seemed distracted all evening, barely touching her food and checking her phone every few minutes.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, reaching across to touch her hand. "You seem somewhere else tonight."

She pulled her hand away. "We need to talk about our relationship."

I smiled, thinking she was being romantic. "Good things, I hope? It's been an amazing five years."

That's when she dropped it. "I'm not your property. I'm opening our marriage. I've already started seeing someone, and I think you should explore other options too."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stared at her, waiting for the punchline that never came. Around us, couples continued their romantic dinners while my world crumbled at table twelve.

"You're... what? Who?" I managed to whisper.

"Derek from my yoga class. We've been connecting on a deep spiritual level for months. This marriage feels so restrictive, so traditional. We're both young—we should experience life before we settle down completely."

I sat there in shock as she explained how she'd already been "exploring" this connection for three months. How she'd read articles about "ethical non-monogamy" and decided our marriage needed to "evolve." How this wasn't about me being inadequate, just about her "personal growth journey."

"So you've been cheating on me for three months, and now you want permission to continue?" I asked, my voice barely steady.

"It's not cheating if we're both open about it," she said, like she was explaining something obvious. "Derek says traditional marriage is just societal conditioning. We can love multiple people."

I excused myself to the bathroom, where I stood staring at my reflection for five minutes, trying to process what was happening. When I returned, she was texting someone—probably Derek—with a small smile on her face.

"I need time to think about this," I said, signaling for the check.

"Of course," she said brightly. "Derek suggested we give you a few weeks to find someone. There are apps for this kind of thing."

The drive home was silent. That night, she slept in the guest room "to give me space to process."

I spent the weekend calling lawyers and reviewing our prenup. Sarah had insisted on keeping separate finances throughout our marriage, which now seemed less like independence and more like preparation. She'd also opened new credit cards I knew nothing about and had been taking "girls' trips" every month since January.

Monday morning, I had the locks changed and had a lawyer serve her divorce papers at her yoga class—right in front of Derek and their spiritual connection.

She called me screaming. "You can't just kick me out! This is my house too!"

"Actually, it's not," I said calmly. "Check the deed. My name only, purchased before marriage. The prenup you insisted on protects your assets—and mine."

"But I thought we were going to work through this! I thought you'd understand once you tried dating other people!"

"I am dating other people," I replied. "Starting with myself. Turns out I'm pretty good company."

She spent the next week trying to reconcile, suddenly very interested in "traditional marriage" now that Derek had ghosted her when things got complicated.

Six months later, I got a wedding invitation. Sarah was marrying someone named Brad—apparently her next spiritual connection. Derek, it turned out, had gone back to his wife.

I didn't attend.