This American husband buys his sheboon foreign wife a McMansion straight out of a suburban fever dream. She’s over the moon, probably already planning where to put the giant “BLESS THIS MESS” sign in the foyer. She even starts twerking in front of their mud shark kid, grinding her post-partum hips in her son's eye line while he's just trying to enjoy his juice box.
She then realises the house is in his name.
And just like that, the sparkle in her eyes dies faster than a vegan at a Texas BBQ. Her smile dropped faster than a stripper's interest when you mention your Bitcoin portfolio the second she realises she can’t legally loot it in a divorce court. The emotional whiplash is so severe you’d think she just found out the walk-in closet is actually a Narnia portal to his credit score.
She's out here playing 4D chess with her insecurities - wig snatched tighter than her pre-nup, topped off with a hat like she’s hiding a FBI Most Wanted hairline. The wig is probably more synthetic than her affection, and it probably cost more than her contribution to the down payment. The wig + hat combo isn't fashion - it's fraud prevention (gotta hide that five-head and four-months-overdue roots).
The kid, who's just a living, breathing alimony calculator, is probably gonna grow up to write a therapy-funded memoir titled “Why Is Daddy’s Name on Everything?”. His future therapy bills will probably outpace the national debt.
BITCH THOUGHT SHE WAS GETTING A HOUSE—NAH, BITCH, IT’S JUST A TEMPORARY SHOWROOM.
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