The moment Jessica’s car, packed with what I assumed was five different types of glitter and a case of rosé, disappeared down the street on Friday afternoon, I sprang into action.

My first move wasn’t packing. It wasn’t cleaning. It was a mission of strategic importance.

I walked next door to Mrs. Gable’s house.

Mrs. Gable is an 80-year-old widow with a sweet smile, a prize-winning rose garden, and a surveillance network that would make the CIA jealous. Nothing happens on our street without her knowing about it.

I brought her a slice of the lemon cake she likes and sat with her on her porch swing.

“Mrs. Gable,” I said, after we had sufficiently discussed the weather and the moral failings of the neighborhood squirrels.

“I have a bit of a situation. And I need your help. It involves… a small bit of theater.”

Her eyes lit up. The woman loves drama more than she loves her roses.

I explained what had happened. I didn’t have to embellish. I told her Jessica’s exact words. Stop acting like we’re married. You don’t get a say.

By the time I finished, Mrs. Gable was patting my hand, her face a mask of pure, righteous fury.

“That shameless little hussy,” she declared, her voice a low hiss.

“Living in your home, eating your food, and talking to you like that?” She shook her head.

“Don’t you worry one bit, Tom. You leave it to me. What’s my line?”

I gave her a simple script. When Jessica returned and inevitably found herself locked out, Mrs. Gable was to act confused, concerned, and deliver a few key pieces of information. She took to the task with the enthusiasm of a seasoned Broadway actress preparing for an opening night.

With my accomplice secured, I returned home to begin what I called “Operation: Bachelor Pad Resurrection.”

My house, for the last six months, had been a sea of beige throw pillows, pointless little bowls that held nothing, and “art” that looked like a printer had run out of ink halfway through a job. It was time to reclaim my territory.

I didn’t just pack Jessica’s things. I curated them. I got a dozen boxes and a thick black marker.

The first box was labeled: EVERYDAY CLOTHES. The second: FANCY CLOTHES FOR FANCY OUTINGS I'M NOT INVITED TO. The third, and my personal favorite: MAGIC SPARKLY DRESSES THAT SHED GLITTER ON EVERYTHING I OWN.

Her thirty-seven pairs of identical-looking high heels went into a box marked: A PODIATRIST'S NIGHTMARE.

Her mountain of makeup and skincare products, which had colonized every surface of our shared bathroom, was packed into boxes labeled: FACE PAINT and VARIOUS GOOPS.

By Saturday morning, every trace of her physical existence was boxed up. I’d hired a couple of guys from a moving app, and we loaded every last box into a 10×5 storage unit across town. I paid for one month. A generous, non-marital gesture, I thought.

With the house cleared of her… essence… the real fun began.

I went on a shopping spree. I rolled up the sterile, beige rug that looked like it belonged in a therapist’s office. I replaced it with an astroturf rug that looked like a football field, complete with yard lines.

I sold her sad, sterile white couch on Facebook Marketplace (it was gone in an hour) and bought a gigantic, black leather recliner sofa. It has approximately sixteen cup holders and a USB port in each armrest.

Her minimalist coffee table, which was basically a white plank on stilts, was replaced by a vintage pinball machine I found on Craigslist. It didn’t work, but it lit up, and that’s what mattered.

The bedroom was next. I took down the weird, stringy macramé thing she had hung over the bed and replaced it with a massive, framed poster of a grizzly bear catching a salmon in its mouth. It felt right.

My final, and most brilliant, move happened on Saturday afternoon. I drove to the local animal shelter. I was “just looking.”

An hour later, I came home with a 120-pound St. Bernard puppy named Gus.

Gus was not a small dog. He was a furry, drooling, lovable wrecking ball. He immediately claimed the new leather sofa as his own, fell asleep with his tongue out, and began snoring like a lumberjack.

The house was transformed. It was no longer a showroom for a sad, beige life. It was a fortress of glorious, unapologetic bachelorhood.

I spent the rest of the weekend playing fetch with Gus, drinking beer from the bottle in my own living room, and, most importantly, changing all the passwords.

The new Wi-Fi network was named: GetYourOwnWiFi The password was: NotMarriedLOL

On Sunday evening, I sat on my sixteen-cup-holder sofa with Gus’s giant, furry head in my lap and waited. The storm was coming. And for the first time in a long, long time, I felt completely, utterly prepared.

Sunday night. 9:00 PM.

My video doorbell sent a notification to my phone. There she was.

Jessica, looking tan from her weekend at the lake, strolled up to my front door, humming. The comedy began almost immediately.

She slid her key into the lock. It didn’t turn. The new deadbolt I’d installed that morning was doing its job.

I watched on my phone as a look of mild annoyance crossed her face. She jiggled it. She tried it again, harder. Then she let out an exasperated sigh and started banging on the door.

From the couch, Gus lifted his massive head, let out a deep, rumbling WOOF, and then went back to sleep.

Jessica started calling my phone. I watched it vibrate on the pinball machine, took a calm sip of my beer, and hit Decline.

She called again. Decline.

This cycle repeated five times. The banging on the door got louder, more frantic.

“TOM! OPEN THE DOOR! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? MY KEY ISN’T WORKING!”

I remained silent. This was all part of the show.

After another five minutes of increasingly frantic pounding and shouting, she seemed to give up. The doorbell camera showed her pacing on the porch, running her hands through her hair, her face turning from confused to furious.

And then, right on cue, a porch light flickered on next door.

Mrs. Gable, in her housecoat, holding a watering can despite the darkness. Showtime.

“Oh, Jessica, dear? Is that you?” Mrs. Gable called out, her voice a perfect blend of surprise and neighborly concern.

“Mrs. Gable, thank GOD,” Jessica said, rushing over to the edge of my porch.

“I can’t get in! My key isn’t working! Is Tom home? I can see the lights on!”

“Oh, Tom’s home,” Mrs. Gable said, nodding sagely.

“He’s had the most wonderful weekend. A real… transformation.”

“Transformation? What are you talking about?”

“Well, he told me the good news!” Mrs. Gable said, leaning on her railing conspiratorially.

“He said you two aren’t married! He said he doesn’t get a say in anything you do, so he decided to celebrate his newfound freedom!”

Jessica just stared, her mouth hanging open.

“He redecorated the whole house,” Mrs. Gable continued, barely containing her glee.

“It’s a ‘man’s home’ now, he said. Very… rugged.”

“And the best part,” she stage-whispered, “he got a dog! A great, big, beautiful boy named Gus! He said he wanted a companion who was loyal… and didn’t talk back. Isn’t that sweet?”

The look on Jessica’s face was a masterpiece of disbelief and raw horror.

She slowly turned and peered through my living room window. From my vantage point on the couch, I saw her face pressed against the glass. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene. The football field rug. The glowing pinball machine. And the giant, snoring St. Bernard occupying her spot on the new sofa.

She let out a sound that was somewhere between a scream and a sob.

She whipped out her phone and started texting me. My phone lit up with a novel’s worth of angry, ALL-CAPS messages.

TOM, WHAT DID YOU DO? WHERE IS MY STUFF? LET ME IN RIGHT NOW THIS ISN'T FUNNY WHO IS THAT WOMAN? AND WHAT IS THAT DISGUSTING DOG DOING ON THE COUCH?

That’s when I decided to respond. I sent her a single, simple text message.

You said to stop acting like we're married. You said I don't get a say. I agree. This is my house, and you don't get a say in how I live in it. Since we're not married, I've returned your non-marital property to a secure location. The address is 123 Storage Way, Unit 42. The code is 1234. You have one month. Have a great life.

I then blocked her number.

The doorbell camera showed her reading the text. She looked at her phone. She looked at the window. She looked back at her phone.

Then she let out a scream of pure, unadulterated rage and threw her phone onto my lawn.

It was a truly spectacular meltdown. She ranted and raved, she pounded on the door, she may have even tried to reason with Gus through the glass. She kept this up for another ten minutes before Tiffany, the head Harpy, arrived in her little white convertible to pick her up.

The next day, the expected social media campaign began. Vague posts about being “betrayed.” About “men who can’t handle a strong, independent woman.” It was pathetic.

But I had one more card to play.

The social media drama was predictable, but also incredibly boring. Jessica and the Harpies posted stories with sad, black-and-white filters and emo music, talking about “knowing your worth” and “cutting out toxic energy.” It was all so generic, it was almost funny. They were trying to paint me as the villain, but they were using a paint-by-numbers kit.

I let them go on for about two days. Then, I decided to provide some much-needed context.

I didn’t engage with them directly. That’s what they wanted. Instead, I made a post on my own private social media page, visible only to our mutual friends.

It was a photo album.

The first picture was of my living room from a month ago. The sad beige couch, the pointless bowls, the general aura of a dentist’s waiting room. The caption read: BEFORE.

The second picture was my living room now. The glorious leather recliner sofa, the football field rug, the glowing pinball machine, and Gus the St. Bernard, sprawled out and looking majestic. The caption read: AFTER.

The final picture was a selfie of me and Gus on the couch. I was holding a beer. He was trying to lick my face. We both looked incredibly, deeply happy. The caption was simple:

Decided to redecorate based on my new relationship status. It was brought to my attention that I'm not married and don't get a say in things, so I'm embracing my freedom. #bachelorpad #dogismycopilot #NoSayNoStay

The post was a nuclear bomb.

The sheer, unadulterated pettiness of it, combined with the undeniable cuteness of Gus, was a winning combination. My friends found it hilarious. The real story, with the proper context, spread like wildfire.

People who had initially offered sympathy to Jessica were now seeing the full picture. The narrative was no longer “psycho boyfriend kicks girlfriend out.” It was “girlfriend tells boyfriend their relationship is a joke, is shocked when he believes her.”

Jessica’s friends went silent. It’s hard to maintain a victim narrative when the “villain” is posting adorable pictures with his giant, lovable dog.

The aftermath for Jessica, I heard, was rough. She crashed with Tiffany, but that apparently lasted less than a week. I heard through the grapevine that Tiffany got tired of Jessica complaining, eating her food, and not contributing to rent. She ended up having to move back in with her parents in a town three hours away.

She did try to come after me legally. I received a certified letter from a lawyer demanding access to the house to “retrieve her wrongfully held property” and demanding “financial compensation for being made homeless.”

My lawyer responded with a copy of my mortgage statement (my name only), a copy of the utility bills (my name only), and a polite inquiry as to whether Jessica would be paying me back for the six months of rent, utilities, and food she had consumed while living in my home as a “non-married person with no obligations.”

We never heard from her lawyer again.

The funniest part of this whole ordeal came about a month ago. I was at the dog park with Gus. He was happily chasing a tennis ball, and I was talking to another dog owner. A woman approached me hesitantly.

It was Chardonnay, the third Harpy. She looked incredibly awkward.

“Hey, Tom,” she said.

“Look… I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About that night at your house. We were… we were out of line.”

I just shrugged. “Jessica said what she said. I just took her at her word.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said, shaking her head.

“She’s… a lot. She called me last week, complaining that her parents are making her get a job. She said it was all your fault for ‘ruining her life.'”

She paused and then looked at Gus, who was now trying to fit three tennis balls in his mouth at once.

“Honestly,” she said with a small smile, “it looks like you’re doing just fine.”

And she was right. I am doing just fine. The house is no longer a beige prison. It’s my home. The pinball machine still doesn’t work, but it makes a great conversation piece. And Gus is, without a doubt, the best roommate I’ve ever had. He’s loyal, he’s funny, and he never, ever complains about my cooking.

I learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes the best revenge isn’t some grand, complicated scheme. It’s just listening to what people say… and believing them.

Jessica told me exactly who she was and what our relationship meant to her. I just decided to agree with her.

She said I didn’t get a say. And now, in her life, I truly don’t. And in my life, she doesn’t either.

And that, combined with a giant, drooling dog, is a pretty happy ending.