I turned up the TV just to drown them out, which felt metaphorically accurate. Later that afternoon, my phone buzz. It was Howard, my old college buddy turned lawyer. I texted him earlier and his response came fast. Document everything.
Everything. I texted back everything, he repeated. No face-to-face fights. Keep it in writing. Crazy writes its own evidence.
I grinned. Solid advice. So, I stopped talking to Clarissa directly and started texting her instead. Every wild thing she said became a legal artifact. Clarissa 8:42 AM.
This is your fault. If you'd been more emotionally available, I wouldn't have reconnected with Trent. Me: 8:45 AM. Noted. Emotional unavailability now officially cheaper than surgery.
Clarissa 9:12 AM. You're punishing me for wanting happiness. Me: 9:15 AM. Just ensuring your happiness has its own payment plan. She didn't respond after that.
Probably Googled if sarcasm was admissible in court. Two days later, she came home with a folder labeled pre-op. I was on the couch eating cereal straight from the box. "Don't mind me," I said, just enjoying my last week as the irrelevant husband. She set the folder down.
"You're such a child." And yet, I said, I'm still more mature than the woman trying to reboot her ex with my cash. She ignored me and called someone on speaker. "Hi, Janet," she said. "Yes, my husband's being difficult about the payment."
The name hit like nails on glass. Janet Whitfield, her friend, and worse, a divorce attorney. Janet's voice came through the phone. Professional and smug. Clarissa, if he's withholding financial access, that could be considered coercive control.
I nearly choked on my cereal. Coercive control? Lady, I'm just saying no to funding the world's weirdest love triangle, Mr. Morrison. Janet said sharply. You're legally obligated to support your wife's medical needs.
She's medically fine. I snapped. Her only condition is chronic poor judgment. Clarissa gasped. You're cruel and your crowdfunded chaos.
I said, "Good luck, Janet." I hung up. 30 minutes later, my phone buzzed again. Unknown number. "Sir, this is Dr. Patel's office.
Your wife listed you as the financial guarantor for her procedure." I smiled. "Oh, that's cute. Please remove my name. I'm allergic to irony."
By that night, she'd done it. Borrowed from her 401k. I overheard her on the phone telling Greta. I can't believe he's making me do this alone. Alone?
I whispered from the hallway. You've got a backup sperm donor and a lawyer. That's a crowd. The next morning, I came downstairs to find her sitting at the table scrolling through baby name lists. If it's a boy, maybe Milo, she said aloud.
Or Finn. I poured my coffee and nodded. Go with oops. It's genderneutral and historically accurate. She didn't laugh, but I did.
That afternoon, I texted Howard again. Me: She's going through with it. Borrowed 8K from her 401k. I think she's serious. Howard, then so are we.
Start documenting assets. Freeze nothing yet, but stay ready. Me: You sound like a SWAT commander. Howard, trust me. Marriage law is a war zone.
By evening, Clarissa had packed an overnight bag. "Trent's picking me up tomorrow," she said. "He wants to be there for support." "Of course he does," I said. "Because nothing screams moral support like driving your lover's wife to surgery."
She frowned. "Don't make this ugly, Clarissa." I said, "This stopped being pretty when you put another man's name next to the word family." That night, she slept in the guest room again. I could hear her phone pinging, probably Trent sending motivational memes.
I lay awake thinking about how we got here. 15 years of teamwork, gone because she wanted a plot twist. At some point around midnight, I got up and went downstairs. The house was quiet except for the hum of the fridge. I opened my laptop and pulled up my notes from Howard.
Step one, stay calm. Step two, collect evidence. Step three, smile like nothing's wrong until the paperwork hits. So I started compiling screenshots, bank statements, texts, even her my body, my choice, Pinterest board, because apparently in divorce court, irony counts as motive. The next morning, she came down humming, humming like a woman heading to brunch.
Not to reverse 5 years of reproductive decisions. She had a glow that made me suspicious. It wasn't joy, it was delusion. Wish me luck, she said. Good luck, I replied.
Try not to confuse the doctor by mentioning Trentid surgery. She rolled her eyes and left with her suitcase. 5 minutes later, I called Howard. She's on her way. Perfect, he said.
You ready to move? Move? File today. You'll have the upper hand while she's under anesthesia. Damn, Howard: I said.
You make it sound like a heist. He laughed. Marriage law is a heist. The trick is to rob back what's yours. I grinned.
Roger that. Before noon, I gathered every document I needed. Marriage certificate, property deed, bank records. I texted Clarissa one last time. Me: Good luck with your surgery.
Don't worry about the bills. You're officially independent now. Then I drove to Howard's office. He already had the paperwork printed, neatly stacked with tabs like a war plan. Sign here, he said.
I signed. My hand didn't even shake. Congratulations, Howard said, shaking mine. You're about to become the proud owner of peace and probable revenge. I walked out of his office feeling lighter.
Clarissa was probably in a recovery bed right then, dreaming of motherhood and Trent's broke promises while I was dreaming of financial freedom in a silent house. When I got home, I poured myself a drink, toasted to my lawyer, and started mentally preparing for round two because something told me Clarissa wasn't done yet. She never was. Sure enough, my phone buzzed 2 hours later. Unknown number, I answered.
Mr. Morrison, this is Janet Whitfield again, came that smug tone. You froze the joint account while Clarissa was in surgery. Yes, I said cheerfully. Timing's poetic, don't you think? That's financial abuse, she barked.