I said it'll be less awkward when you start video chatting your baby daddy. Grow up, Luke. She snapped. You're overreacting, Clarissa. I said, if I told you I wanted to start a family with my ex, how would you react?
That's different. She said immediately. How? because men don't get it. Translation: logic doesn't apply to you. She grabbed her blanket and stomped upstairs.
I just sat there in silence, staring at the TV. Some guy on the screen was crying because his wife wanted a third partner. I almost laughed. Buddy, I muttered. At least she warned you before the spaghetti.
That night, I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her voice saying, he wants to try again and have a family with me. Each word echoed like someone dropping bowling balls onto my sanity. I thought about every vacation, every anniversary, every dumb couple selfie we'd ever taken and realized all of it could be undone over a bowl of marinara and misplaced nostalgia. By 3:00 AM., I'd made up my mind.
This wasn't a midlife crisis. This was a full-blown demolition. Clarissa wasn't looking for love. She was looking for an audience. And I was done being the co-star in her soap opera.
So the next morning, I made two cups of coffee. One for me, one for the woman who was about to regret ever mentioning Trent, and waited for her to come downstairs. She shuffled in wearing her silk robe, phone glued to her hand, already googling tubal reversal success stories. I handed her the mug. Morning.
She smiled faintly. Thanks. I didn't sleep much. Me neither, I said. I was busy wondering how long I've been married to a Lifetime movie plot.
She sighed. Luke, don't start. I'm not starting, I said. I'm just recalculating my exit strategy. Her eyes narrowed.
You're not seriously thinking about leaving over this. Clarissa: I said, you're planning to make babies with your ex. If that's not a good reason to leave, I don't know what is. She stared genuinely shocked that I wasn't playing along. I thought we were stronger than that.
We were, I said, until you turned dinner into a DNA announcement. She stormed off, muttering something about me never supporting her dreams. And that was it. The switch flipped. The woman who once argued about Netflix shows was now fighting for the right to get impregnated by a man who probably still thought Bitcoin was a personality trait.
I took my coffee, went to my office, and opened a new document titled exit plan. Step one, call Howard, my lawyer buddy. Step two, don't let her see it coming. The way I figured it, if she wanted to start a new family, she could do it without my name on the mortgage, my paycheck in the mix, or my sanity in the line of fire. Because no matter how many Pinterest quotes she posted about following your heart, the fine print was clear.
Some hearts lead straight to financial ruin. And I was done sponsoring hers. The next morning smelled like betrayal and burnt toast. Clarissa was in the kitchen, laptop open, typing away like a woman on a mission. I didn't need to look over her shoulder to know what she was doing.
She was researching tubal reversal success rates. Meanwhile, I was in the living room researching something equally life-changing, divorce lawyers. The contrast was poetic. She clicked through medical forums like she was shopping for a spa package. This one says 80% success rate if the clips are removed cleanly.
She announced like she just discovered the cure for cancer. Good for you, I said, sipping my coffee. Just make sure you find a model that accepts emotional insurance because I'm out. Clarissa didn't laugh. She was too busy taking notes.
There's a private clinic in Atlanta that does it faster. $1,800 for expedited surgery. Expedited? I asked. Are you expecting a coupon for babies? She ignored me.
5 minutes later, she printed a form and slid it across the table like she was closing a business deal. They just need your signature. Payment has to be made up front. I picked up the paper, pretending to read it. So, you want me to sponsor your ex's comeback tour?
Her head snapped up. It's not like that. It's a medical procedure. You're my husband. This is our journey.
No, Clarissa: I said. Our journey ended when you decided to invite Trent to the afterparty. She crossed her arms. It's our money, Luke. Our money doesn't cover your midlife sequel.
I said, you don't see me asking you to fund a yacht so I can relive my bachelor days. Her eyes narrowed. You're being impossible. I'm being realistic, I said, standing up. If you want your tubes untied, that's your business.
But don't expect me to foot the bill for a science experiment sponsored by Nostalgia. She slammed the table hard enough to rattle the salt shaker. "You're trying to control me, Clarissa," I said. "I'm trying to control my bank account." 10 minutes later, her phone bust.
I heard her whispering in the corner, voice rising like she was auditioning for a courtroom drama. A minute later, she marched back in, face red. "Greta is on her way." Of course she is, I said. Every bad idea of yours comes with a family audience.
Greta, her younger sister, and self-appointed moral compass arrived 20 minutes later in yoga pants in judgment. Luke, she said, not even greeting me. You can't refuse to pay for her medical care. She's not curing cancer, Greta. She's curing boredom, I said.
You're heartless, she hissed. No, I said boundary-conscious. There's a difference. Clarissa folded her arms, glaring at me like I was the villain in her Hallmark movie. I'll just use my 401k, she said.
I hope you're happy. Ecstatic, I said. That's one less lawsuit to worry about. She stormed upstairs, Greta following like a backup singer in a bad music video. I could hear muffled complaining words like selfish, toxic, and emotionally abusive being thrown around.