He Blamed the Booze—Until the Judge Saw the Texts

For seven years, Tiffany Atkinson had been the anchor in Wesley Rentz’s storm — holding together a home, a family, and a dream that was slowly slipping away. When they first met, the magic felt effortless. She was a single mother out with friends, trying to forget a painful breakup, when the guitarist on stage caught her eye. He winked mid-song, flashing that confident smile musicians wear like armor. When he came over during a break and told her she had a smile that “made him weak in the knees,” she laughed — and for a while, she believed the song he was playing might really be about her.

Life with Wesley started like a melody: laughter, late-night talks, kids dancing around the living room to his guitar. He wasn’t just dating her — he’d stepped into her family and loved her children as his own. For her youngest daughter, he’d been there from the very start, a father figure with calloused fingers and a heart that beat to a rhythm only he understood.

But somewhere along the way, the music soured. Wesley’s passion for the band grew into obsession. Gigs turned into late nights, and late nights turned into excuses. He stayed out drinking with his “boys,” chasing bar lights and applause while Tiffany waited at home, keeping dinner warm and doubts warmer.

Then came the hurricane.

The storm ripped through their town, shredding siding, uprooting trees, and splitting their roof open. Tiffany huddled her children in a closet, covering them as the wind screamed outside. She called Wesley again and again — no answer. When she finally reached him, he was passed out drunk at a bandmate’s house. That night, something broke inside her. The man who’d once promised to protect her family wasn’t there when she needed him most.

Things only spiraled from there. On his birthday, Tiffany planned his favorite dinner — fried pork chops and string beans — only for Wesley to show up hours late with his band, drunk and loud. They trashed her kitchen, ate everything, and left her in tears. The next day, she found the worst surprise of all: someone had

vomited in her bathroom. Wesley swore it was a “bandmate,” but the smell of whiskey and betrayal lingered.

Judge Star listened patiently as Tiffany described years of broken promises and booze-soaked nights. “You don’t just have a drinking problem,” the judge told Wesley. “You have a

not-being-responsible problem.”

And then came the bombshell. Tiffany had gone through Wesley’s phone. What she found made her stomach turn: a nude photo of a woman bent over in a mirror, messages filled with sexual innuendo — “Send me those pictures you promised me tonight,” followed by Wesley’s reply: “Why waste time?” Another message: “Do you like spanking?” His answer: “There’s a first time for everything.”

As the courtroom fell silent, Judge Star held up the evidence and looked him square in the eyes. “Does she look seventy?” she asked, referencing his earlier excuse that the woman was just an elderly fan. The audience gasped, Tiffany’s jaw clenched, and Wesley’s excuses evaporated.

Even then, he tried to laugh it off. “I might’ve been drinking too much that night,” he said weakly. But Tiffany wasn’t having it. She told the court how he’d even

called her by the other woman’s name during intimacy. That was the last straw. She kicked him out — to the camper in their backyard.

By the time they appeared in

Divorce Court, Tiffany was done hoping for change. “I want him gone, Your Honor,” she said firmly. Wesley shrugged, claiming he still loved her but was willing to move on — as long as he got the engagement ring back.

Judge Star delivered her verdict with grace and humor. She reminded him that in Georgia, an engagement ring is a conditional gift — unless the giver’s “dirty hands” caused the breakup. “And sir,” she said pointedly, “you’ve got

very dirty hands.”

Tiffany smiled as the judge handed her the keys to her home. The courtroom applauded as Judge Star urged Wesley to “be an honorable gentleman” and let her go in peace. “You’ve been living your best life,” she told him. “But you can’t drag someone with you who doesn’t want that ride.”

Outside the courtroom, Wesley muttered that she’d “got what she wanted.” Tiffany didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. For seven years, she’d waited for him to grow up — to choose family over fantasy.

Now she was choosing herself.

The guitarist could keep his camper, his groupies, and his songs about heartbreak. Tiffany had her freedom — and this time, the music would finally play just for her.