My Ex Mocked Me for Being a Single Mother. Today I Work at the Bank That Foreclosed on His House.

I’ll never forget that day at the supermarket, five years ago.
I was pushing the cart with Sofía sitting in the child seat, trying to juggle my shopping list with a budget that barely stretched far enough.
Then I saw him.
Marcos. My ex.

“Carla?” —he said with that smile that once seemed charming— “Wow, you look… different.”

Different. His elegant way of saying “worn out.”
I was wearing my waitress uniform from the restaurant, my hair tied back in a messy ponytail, and I probably had dark circles down to my knees.

“Hi, Marcos,” I answered, trying to sound casual.

“So it’s true,” he said, glancing at Sofía. “You kept the kid.”

Kept the kid. As if my daughter were an old sofa no one wanted.

“She’s my daughter, Marcos. It’s not about ‘keeping’ her — it’s about raising her.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get so sensitive.” —He laughed, then leaned toward me like he was sharing a secret— “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but… aren’t you embarrassed? Being a single mom, working as a waitress? You could’ve done something with your life if you hadn’t been so stubborn.”

I froze. His girlfriend — impeccably dressed — appeared by his side.

“Are you coming, honey? We have that dinner at the club,” she said, looking me up and down with disdain.

“Coming, darling,” he replied, then turned to me one last time. “Good luck, Carla. You’ll need it.”

That night, I cried while Sofía slept.
But those were the last tears I ever shed for him.

I went back to school. I enrolled in night courses in administration and finance while my mother watched Sofía.
I slept four hours a night.
Lived on coffee.
But I kept going.

Three years later, I landed a job as a junior analyst at a bank.
Two years after that, I was promoted to a mortgage loan officer.

And today, this morning, as I was reviewing the list of pending foreclosures, I saw his name.

Marcos Restrepo. Avenida Los Cerezos 847.

My hand trembled on the mouse.
I read the file carefully — eight months of missed payments, multiple ignored notices, a failed restaurant business that had left him bankrupt.

“Carla, can you handle the Los Cerezos foreclosure?” my boss asked. “It’s a tricky one. The debtor’s been… difficult.”

“Of course,” I replied, keeping my voice steady.

Two days later, I rang the doorbell of that beautiful house I had once seen on his social media — the same house where he’d flaunted his “perfect life.”

Marcos opened the door.
He was wearing sweatpants and a stained t-shirt.
He had aged badly — receding hairline, beer belly, tired eyes.

At first, he didn’t recognize me. I stood there in my tailored black suit, heels, and neatly styled hair.

“Good morning,” I said. “I’m Carla Mendoza, loan officer from Banco Central. I’m here regarding the foreclosure process.”

His eyes widened.

“Carla?” he whispered. “No… it can’t be.”

“Mr. Restrepo, may we come in to review the documentation?”

I entered with the notary and the locksmith. Marcos followed us like a ghost.

“Carla, wait… I didn’t know you worked here. Maybe we can talk? You know, for old times’ sake.”

I turned toward him.

“Mr. Restrepo, this is strictly professional. You’ve failed to meet your loan obligations for eight consecutive months. The bank has exhausted every option to negotiate.”

“But Carla, I… I just need a little more time. The business is going to take off, I just need—”

“That’s what you said in the last six notices,” I interrupted, flipping through the file. “Mr. Restrepo, you have seventy-two hours to vacate the property.”

His face went pale.

“Do you remember when we ran into each other at the supermarket?” I asked, allowing myself a slightly personal tone. “You asked me if I wasn’t ashamed to be a single mother working as a waitress.”

“I… I was being an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“You know what? I wasn’t ashamed then, and I’m not ashamed now,” I continued. “While you were showing off your perfect life, I was building mine. Sofía’s in second grade, top of her class. I finished my degree. I have a good job, my own house, and, most importantly, I have dignity.”

He looked down.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” I asked. “The one from the club?”

“She left when the money ran out,” he muttered.

I nodded slowly.

“Mr. Restrepo, the notary will hand you the paperwork. Have a good day.”

I walked toward the door, my heels echoing on the marble floor of that house that soon wouldn’t be his anymore.

“Carla,” he called after me.

I stopped, without turning around.

“I was wrong about you,” he said quietly. “You were always stronger than me.”

“I know,” I replied, and left without looking back.

That night, I hugged Sofía while we worked on her math homework.
She looked up at me with those big, beautiful eyes I love.

“Mommy, why are you smiling so much?”

“Because today was a good day, sweetheart. A very good day.”

I didn’t feel pleasure in his downfall. I didn’t feel revenge.
I felt something better: I felt that every sleepless night, every sacrifice, every moment I doubted myself had been worth it.

Because in the end, the best revenge isn’t watching the one who humiliated you fall.

The best revenge is rising so high that you can’t even see them when you look down