No, I said. That's asset protection. Google it. Then I hung up. It was the first time in weeks I'd smiled without guilt.
For the first time since the spaghetti showdown, I felt in control. Clarissa could chase her second chance with Trent all she wanted, but I was done funding reruns. The surgery might have reversed her tubes, but I just reversed the power. Friday morning dawned brighter than it had any right to be. Birds chirped, coffee smelled like optimism, and Clarissa was humming in the kitchen as if she hadn't just detonated our marriage with a scalpel and an ex-boyfriend.
I sat at the dining table sipping my coffee, half expecting a film crew to jump out and tell me this was all a reality show experiment on emotional endurance. She was packing an overnight bag, carefully folding clothes into perfect delusional squares. Trent's picking me up in an hour, she said in that voice women use when they think they're announcing a royal engagement. He wants to be there for support. Support?
I asked. From what? Carpal tunnel. It's a surgery, not a Broadway debut. She shot me a sharp look.
You don't have to be sarcastic. This is a beautiful thing creating life. Beautiful, I said, stirring my coffee like a car crash in slow motion, she sighed, zipping up her bag. I know this is hard for you to understand. Oh, believe me, I said.
I get it perfectly. You're driving off with your ex to undo the one good decision we ever made. Totally normal Friday, she paused midstep. You don't have to make me feel guilty. Don't worry, I said standing and carrying my mug to the sink.
You've got Trent for comfort. I'm sure he's great at emotional support or whatever support broke guys specialize in. Her face reed. You always think money solves everything. No, I said, but in this case, it definitely solves not living with a woman trying to get pregnant for someone else.
She didn't reply, just huffed and looked at her watch like she was late for an appointment with Logic. Then the honk came, a weak, embarrassing sound from outside. I peeked through the blinds and saw Trent's car, a faded red sedan that looked like it ran on disappointment and hope. I waved casually. Trent waved back awkwardly.
Clarissa grabbed her purse, chin held high. "You're impossible," she said. "And you're consistent," I said, smiling. "Good luck, Clarissa." "Really?
Try not to bleed on my upholstery when you get back." She glared at me one last time and stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to shake the picture frames. The sound was oddly satisfying. The moment she was gone, my fake smile dropped faster than the stock market during bad news. I turned off the coffee machine, grabbed my phone, and dialed Howard.
"She's gone," I said. He didn't even say hello. "Good. You ready?" "Born ready," I said.
At exactly 9:00 AM., we filed for divorce. Electronic signatures, timestamped, digital, and permanent, like a tattoo of freedom. At 9:30, I froze the joint accounts. Clarissa had probably imagined herself recovering from surgery while I waited dutifully with soup and flowers. Nope.
I was busy reassigning financial custody. By 10:00, I'd opened a new checking account under my name only. The banker, a cheerful woman named Tessa, smiled and said, "New beginnings? You could say that." I replied, "It's like spring cleaning but for emotional baggage and shared credit cards."
At noon, I called the insurance company and changed the beneficiary from Clarissa to my brother Kyle. The agent on the line, bless her, asked if it was for security purposes, something like that. I said, "You could say my wife's about to start a new chapter, and I prefer not to appear in the footnotes." By two, I was feeling invincible, like I just survived an emotional hurricane and rebuilt with sarcasm and spreadsheets. I poured myself a drink, leaned back in my chair, and admired my handiwork.
Then the phone rang. Unknown number, Mr. Morrison, speaking. This is Janet Whitfield representing your wife, Clarissa Morrison, I groaned. Of course. Hello, Janet.
Lovely to hear from you again. Have you come to confess that your clients lost her mind? Or is this just the sequel? She ignored my tone. Did you freeze Clarissa's accounts while she was in surgery?
Yes, I said cheerfully. Timing's poetic, don't you think? That's financial abuse, she snapped. No, I said that's asset protection. You might have read about it in that thing called the law.
You can't leave her without access to funds while she's vulnerable. She wasn't vulnerable when she planned to have another man's kid on my dime. I said, "This is what we call balance. You're risking serious consequences." I chuckled.
So is she, but only one of us filed first. There was silence. Then grudgingly, I'll be in touch. Looking forward to it, I said, hanging up. I stood there for a moment feeling a strange kind of peace.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn't the one reacting. I was acting and damn, it felt good. Around 4:00 PM., my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text from Clarissa. Clarissa, surgery went great.
Feeling sore but happy. Trent was amazing. Me: Glad to hear. I filed for divorce. Feeling free but thirsty.
She didn't respond for a while, but when she did, the message was a masterpiece of denial. Clarissa, you're being impulsive. We can still make this work. I'll be home tonight. Me: Take your time.
I changed the locks. No reply after that. Just blissful silence. That night, I cooked myself dinner. Steak, mashed potatoes, the works.
I poured a glass of bourbon, turned on some jazz, and toasted to self-preservation. To me, I said aloud. and to never sponsoring delusional fertility again. Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. I debated ignoring it, but curiosity won. When I opened the door, a delivery driver stood there holding a bouquet of roses.