It felt like therapy, cheap, effective, and drama-free. By midnight, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of my freedom. The house felt lighter. The air smelled cleaner. Maybe it was the absence of Clarissa's essential oils.
Maybe it was just peace. Either way, it was perfect. And as I drifted off to sleep, one thought kept echoing in my mind. I didn't lose a wife. I lost a liability.
3 days. That's how long it took for Clarissa's new happily ever after to start cracking like cheap foundation. I wasn't surprised. It was only a matter of time before the fairy tale turned into a cautionary podcast. But I didn't expect the first call to come from her sister, Greta, of all people.
It was Tuesday evening and I was halfway through my stake when my phone lit up. Greta. Normally, I wouldn't have answered if the house were on fire, but curiosity beat caution. Luke, she said voice tight. Greta, I said, what an unpleasant surprise.
Don't start, she snapped. I just look, they're living with me. I grinned. You, Clarissa, and Trent, what a sitcom. What's it called?
Three losers and a couch. Don't be a jerk, she said. I'm serious. He won't work and she keeps talking about baby names. She's not even pregnant.
I nearly choked on my steak. Oh, this is better than TV. Please go on. She's losing it. Greta muttered.
She sits around all day watching fertility vlogs and crying. And Trent, God, he's been painting in my garage. Says he's working on a vision board for creative abundance. He owes me rent. Greta, I said, trying not to laugh.
You invited them in. You bought the ticket. Enjoy the ride. I didn't invite them. She hissed.
She showed up crying about you and how you stole her dreams. I didn't know she was bringing the clown. I laughed so hard I had to mute the call for a second. Let me guess. Trent told you he just needed a few weeks to get on his feet.
Yes, she said. He's been here 10 days and hasn't worn shoes once. Sounds like progress. I said, "At least his feet are getting fresh air. This isn't funny."
Greta said, "You should see her. She's not the same. She's Well, she's kind of delusional." I leaned back in my chair, swirling my drink. She was delusional before.
Now she just has an audience. There was a long pause. You don't care at all, do you? I smiled. Care, Greta?
I cared for 15 years. Now I'm retired. She hung up. I spent the next 5 minutes laughing into my bourbon glass. An hour later, Howard called.
Got a message from Clarissa's lawyer. He said, "Let me guess. She wants more money. Bingo. 50 grand to settle things amicably."
I snorted. 50 grand. She should try GoFundMe like everyone else with bad decisions. Could end it clean, Howard said. You'd be free of her completely.
I thought about it for a second, then shook my head. Nope. She started this chaos. She can finish it. I'm not paying tuition for the school of consequences.
Howard chuckled. You've got a mean streak. Call it a sense of balance, I said. Every action gets a reaction. Hers just come with rent due.
That night, I slept better than I had in months. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was knowing that karma was finally putting in overtime. The next morning, my peace was interrupted by another call. This time from a number I didn't recognize.
Against my better judgment, I answered. Luke, a soft voice said. Depends who's asking. It's Clarissa. I sighed.
Shouldn't you be too busy naming imaginary babies? She ignored the jab. I just wanted to talk calmly. That's new. I said, "All right, you've got 30 seconds.
I'm struggling." She said, "Everything's hard right now, Trent. And I just need a little time to get settled. Maybe you could help." I laughed so loudly it startled her.
Help, Clarissa. I already helped. I didn't press charges when you stole half my peace of mind. You're being cruel, she said softly. "And you're being predictable," I replied.
"What do you need?" "Money, food, a therapist with industrial-strength patience." She sniffled. Just some understanding, Clarissa. I said, I understand perfectly.
You left a stable marriage for a broke artist who thinks acrylic paint is a retirement plan. I'm just not funding that understanding. Fine, she snapped. Enjoy your empty house. I am, I said cheerfully.
It's quiet, clean, and doesn't cry over baby names. She hung up. Later that day, Greta texted me. You were right. He's useless.
She's losing it. This is a nightmare. I replied, "Welcome to my last three years." Greta sent another message an hour later. He tried to sell one of her handbags for gas money.
Artistic initiative. I texted back, "Man's a visionary." I didn't hear from her again that week, but the gossip traveled fast. By Thursday, the neighborhood grapevine, specifically my neighbor Dave, had updates. "Heard from my wife that Clarissa is staying with her sister," he said, leaning on the fence.
Apparently, she and that Trent guy keep fighting. I grinned. Can't imagine why. Nothing bonds a couple like shared delusion and financial collapse. Dave chuckled.
You're cold, man. No, I said I'm free. It just looks like cold from a distance. That night, I poured myself a drink and thought about it. Clarissa had everything.
Security, comfort, a husband who didn't cheat or gamble or vanish for weeks. and she traded it all for a man whose idea of ambition was an Etsy page that hadn't made a sale since 2018. "You couldn't script a better downfall if you tried." Friday morning, Howard called again. "She's desperate," he said. Janet just emailed me.
Clarissa wants to negotiate privately. Says she's reconsidering everything. I laughed. Translation: Trent asked her to split the electric bill. "Want me to schedule a meeting?"