Divorce After the Reddit Thread

There was a trending thread on Reddits r/AskMen the other day: Guys who married a 10/10, whats it actually like?

The top-voted comment belonged to a user named ApexPredator88.

Nothing special, honestly. Its mostly just good for the ego when we go out.

My wife isnt the sharpest tool in the shed, but shes undeniably gorgeous.

Below his comment, a chorus of internet bros chimed in with unsolicited warnings.

Looks don't pay the bills, man. Women like that are spoiled rotten. Bet she cant keep a house clean and bleeds your bank account dry.

Bro, listen to me. The second she pushes out a kid, her market value tanks. Youre gonna be left holding the bag.

ApexPredator88 was quick to reply.

Oh, I know. Im not an idiot. The second she hits the wall and loses her looks, Im finding an excuse to divorce her. You can hold me to that.

The replies erupted into a digital frat party of cheers. Dozens of users dropped the Following for updates or RemindMe! tags. Someone called his bluff, demanding photo proof that his wife was actually as hot as he claimed.

A few minutes later, he smugly uploaded a picture.

I froze, the blood draining from my face until my fingertips turned to ice.

Because the woman in the photosmiling softly at the camera, completely unawarewas me.

I had barely locked my phone screen when my husband walked out of the kitchen, holding a plate of neatly sliced apples. His voice dripped with practiced, performative care.

Here you go, babe. Have some fruit.

The doctor said you need to keep your nutrients up in the first trimester.

I was six weeks pregnant, and the hyperemesis gravidarum was tearing me apart. My morning sickness was brutal, unrelenting.

Especially the smell of anything sweet. It made my stomach violently revolt.

I dont want it. Take it away.

I forced the words through clenched teeth, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat, and coldly pushed the plate back.

Connor paused, the corners of his mouth tightening. The supportive-husband smile fractured on his face.

But he didnt pull the plate back. Instead, he speared a slice with a fork and thrust it directly into my personal space.

Come on. I already cut it up. Just eat one piece. Do it for the baby.

The cloying, sugary scent of the apple hit my nose. Every nerve ending in my body flared with an uncontrollable, primal irritation. I shoved his hand away, harder this time.

I told you yesterday I cant stomach anything sweet. Even the smell makes me want to throw up.

His eyes darkened. He looked down at me, his voice dropping into that condescending, paternal register Id come to loathe.

Madeline, youre about to be a mother.

The baby needs nutrients. If you dont eat, whats he supposed to do in there?

When did you become so selfish?

The fork lunged toward me again.

This time, he didn't give me a choice, practically shoving the cold, wet fruit against my lips.

The nausea I had been wrestling with instantly overpowered me. A wave of absolute repulsion crashed through my system.

Connor, are you deaf?!

Ive told you a thousand times! I dont want it! I dont want it! I dont want it!

I screamed at him, my vision blurring with rage. I slapped the plate out of his hands. It shattered against the hardwood floor.

Pale, sticky apple slices scattered like debris across the room.

He stood there, perfectly still, a terrifying flash of malice passing behind his eyes.

I didn't care what he was thinking.

The sticky, sweet residue of the juice on my lips was making my skin crawl. All I wanted was to get to the bathroom, scrub my face, and brush my teeth.

I barely made it over the threshold. Before I could even squeeze the toothpaste onto the bristles, I collapsed over the toilet and wretched until my vision went dark at the edges.

Connor followed me in. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring down at me with absolute, clinical detachment.

He didnt offer to hold my hair. He didnt say a word. He just watched me dry-heave for a long, suffocating minute.

Then, I heard the sound of him walking down the hall, putting on his shoes, and the heavy thud of the front door slamming shut.

When my stomach was finally empty, I wiped my mouth, cleaned the porcelain bowl, and slumped against the cold bathroom tiles. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

ApexPredator88 had updated his thread.

The bros were right. Pretty women are impossible to please.

I cut up an apple for her, literally tried to feed it to her, and she lost her mind. Threw the whole plate on the floor.

He attached a photo of the shattered ceramic and the apples scattered across our living room rug.

The comment section was a cesspool of mockery.

Serves you right, bro. You created that monster by simping for her.

For real. Why the hell are you cutting her apples?

One user chimed in, asking: So whats the play now?

Connor replied with the chilling confidence of a man performing for an audience:

I stepped out for a smoke. Gonna let her sit in her own mess and cool off.

If I stayed and argued with her, I swear to God I wouldve backhanded her.

The comment racked up upvotes in seconds. 99+.

Youre a saint, man.

Yeah, youre stepping up more than 90% of guys out there. You just gotta grit your teeth and endure it for now.

Exactly. Just survive these next few months. Once that kid drops, shes lost her leverage. Then you hold all the cards.

I stared at the screen, a bizarre, hysterical laugh bubbling in my chest. It was so absurd it didn't even feel real.

Looking down, I logged into an old burner account and typed out a single, quiet reply.

Is it really that deep? Maybe the pregnant woman just genuinely didnt want to eat fruit?

The moment I hit reply, I was completely dogpiled.

LMAO, she has a mouth, she can use her words. Next.

Yeah, if she doesn't want to eat, fine. But smashing the plate? What kind of psychotic behavior is that?

Give me a break. Stop making excuses for these females. Shes just weaponizing her pregnancy to throw tantrums and assert dominance over her husband.

Asserting dominance? Throwing tantrums?

When Connor had brought the apples home from Whole Foods yesterday, I specifically told him I couldn't eat them.

And what had he said?

If you don't eat them, I will. If I don't, my parents will. If they don't, the stray dogs in the neighborhood will.

Just because youre pregnant doesn't mean apples are banished from the house, Madeline. Stop being so self-centered.

It sounded reasonable enough at the time. So, he brought the massive bag of fruit inside, and I didn't say another word.

But the reality?

He hated apples. He never ate them. He just liked the power trip of trying to force me to eat them. I said no, and he just kept pushing, pushing, pushing, like a machine incapable of processing the word no.

Suddenly, a user with a verified flair as a medical professional spoke up in the thread.

Wait, can we back up a second?

This guy left his pregnant wife alone with a floor full of broken glass and slippery fruit?

What if she slips and falls? What if theres an accident?

In a sea of men violently venting their resentments, she was the only one pointing out the actual physical danger.

And yet, even this verified nurse was immediately torn to shreds by the mob.

You dont know what youre talking about. She made the mess, she should clean it. If he cleans it this time, next time shell smash the TV.

Stop fear-mongering. Its not that dangerous. Women always overexaggerate how fragile they are to extract more resources from men. We all know how this works.

Truth. When my mom was pregnant with me, my dad beat the brakes off her a few times, and I came out just fine.

I scrolled down, comment by comment. With every swipe, the chill in my bathroom seemed to seep deeper into my bones, freezing the marrow.

If the algorithm hadn't randomly pushed my husbands viral post onto my feed, I never would have known this dark, twisted corner of the internet existed. I never would have known these men walked among us.

A long time passed. The bathroom grew dark as the sun set outside.

I heard the lock click. Connor was back. His face was flushed, and the sour scent of bourbon drifted through the hallway.

He walked into the living room, saw the apples still on the floor, and stopped. The anger flared instantly.

Madeline, youve been lying in bed scrolling on your phone all afternoon, and you couldn't be bothered to clean up the house?

I didnt even have the energy to point out that he had also been out all afternoon, doing absolutely nothing to clean the house.

He didn't need my response to launch into a tirade.

Youre barely showing! Its not like youre incapacitated and need round-the-clock care.

Youve been pregnant for five minutes, and youre already trying to play the queen? Trying to establish dominance, is that it?

Well, let me tell you right now, Madelineits not gonna work!

I stared at him. Really stared at him. He looked like a complete stranger.

He had swallowed the internets poison whole. He genuinely believed that my nausea, my exhaustion, my very existence right now was some calculated chess move to manipulate him.

I didn't want to argue. The fight had drained right out of me.

I walked past him, my face entirely blank, and pulled a weekender bag from the closet. I started throwing sweaters and underwear into it.

I couldn't think anymore. I didn't want to analyze this.

I just wanted to go home. Back to my parents' house. Back to somewhere safe.

But the moment he saw the bag, Connor snapped. He lunged into the bedroom and grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.

Where do you think youre going? Your temper is getting out of control. One little disagreement and youre running back to mommy and daddy?

He leaned in closer. The stench of cheap liquor and stale sweat hit the back of my throat.

Let go of me.

I tried to yank my arm away, my voice icy.

Instead of letting go, his grip tightened like a vise.

Are you done throwing this little tantrum yet, Madeline?

You smash plates, you throw food, I tolerate all of it. What more do you want from me?

Do you have any idea how suffocating you are?

Youre pregnant, congratulations. Does that mean our entire lives have to revolve around your psychotic mood swings?

The smell of the bourbon was pushing me right back to the edge of vomiting. I couldn't form a sentence to defend myself, nor did I want to. I just shook my head.

Fine. Ill stop suffocating you.

Connor, I want a divorce.