Kristen finally gets me on the phone that evening. Her voice is sharp, defensive. "The school called you before me? That's inappropriate. And you ignoring me is making everything worse."
"You came home at almost 2:00 in the morning," I say. "You let another man kiss you on our porch while Olivia was inside. I have it on camera, Kristen." Silence.
Then, "Tom, I was drunk. It was one stupid mistake. You're blowing it out of proportion because you're embarrassed about your little scene at the bar." I hear myself exhale, calm, cold.
"No. I was embarrassed when my wife ground against another man in front of half the town. The kiss on the porch, that's when I got clarity." She starts crying, pivoting.
How lonely she's been. How I've been married to my job. How Evan just listened. None of it is new.
All of it used to work on me. But while she talks, my eyes drift back to the frozen image on the laptop. Her arms around his neck, his hand on the doorframe of my house. After we hang up, I don't call a therapist.
I don't call a pastor. I call a colleague I trust. Mark, the guy in tax who went through a nasty divorce three years ago. "Who was your lawyer?" I ask him.
No preamble. "Patricia Mills," he says. "Didn't let my ex gaslight the judge once." I Google the number, dial, and schedule a consultation for the next day.
When the receptionist asks for the reason, I don't sugarcoat it. Infidelity concerns, child custody. I have a video. That night, sitting at my mom's kitchen table while Olivia colors in the next room, something inside me finally shifts.
I stop thinking like a wounded husband trying to win his wife back. I start thinking like a father who has one job: make sure his daughter grows up in a house where the adults act like adults. Three days later, I'm in a conference room that smells like stale coffee and copier toner, sitting across from my wife like she's an opposing witness. Patricia Mills sits to my right.
Mid-40s, steady, the kind of woman who looks like she's seen every version of this story and stopped being shocked a decade ago. Legal pad in front of her, manila folder by her elbow, tablet on the table. Efficient, unemotional. Kristen walks in 10 minutes late.
Blazer over a blouse like she's going to a performance review. She stops when she sees the setup, me on one side, Patricia on the other. "You're actually doing this?" she says, dropping into the chair opposite. Arms crossed, chin lifted, eyes already bright with anger.
Patricia doesn't flinch. "Good afternoon, Kristen. I'm Patricia Mills, representing Tom. We're here to discuss terms for legal separation with intent to divorce, as well as primary custody arrangements for Olivia."
Kristen laughs once, sharp. "You can't be serious. Over a dance? Over one stupid night?" Patricia opens the folder.