And damn, it was the best trip I ever took. Monday morning started the way all modern disasters begin with a notification ping. I was still in bed halfway through a dream involving peace and bacon when my phone buzzeded like it owed me rant. I blinked at the screen and saw the words that strike fear into any man's heart. Clarissa Morrison has posted a new status.
Great. My ex to be had gone public. I clicked it because of course I did. There it was. A long self-righteous paragraph framed by pastel emojis and enough hashtags to choke a marketing intern.
Some men can't handle when a woman chooses her own path. #MyBodyMyChoice #healing after toxicity brave not broken. Underneath were comments from her personal fan club, mostly yoga friends, old co-workers, and that one aunt who calls everything inspirational. The comment section was a war zone of misplaced sympathy. Stay strong, sis, flexed biceps, medium skin tone, sparkling heart.
You're glowing through the pain. Men never appreciate a queen. I was about to scroll past when I saw a familiar name pop up in the thread. My friend Tony, nicknamed Teeth because his smile could blind satellites. Teeth commented, "Didn't her path lead back to Trent the unemployed?"
Faced with tears of joy, asking for a friend, I laugh so hard I spill my coffee. It was like watching someone set off fireworks in a yoga studio. Within minutes, Clarissa deleted the post. Guess enlightenment has limits when it comes to being roasted online. By noon, I figured I was in the clear.
That's when my lawyer buddy Howard called, cackling, "You've gone viral on the family law forums." He said, "What?" He sent me a screenshot. Apparently, Clarissa's divorce attorney, Janet Whitfield, had filed an emergency petition for temporary spousal support. Translation: Clarissa wanted money for a life.
She torched herself. "She's demanding alimony, the house, and future child support," Howard said between laughs. "Future? What?" I said.
She's not even pregnant. Yeah, he said, chuckling. That's a first for me. She wants financial support for hypothetical children she plans to have with another man. I might frame this petition.
I rubbed my temples. Please tell me the judge will laugh her out of the courtroom. Oh, we're definitely getting a reaction, Howard said. Popcorn. The hearing was scheduled for Friday, but in true Clarissa fashion, she couldn't wait that long.
Wednesday morning, she showed up at mediation with Trent in tow. I almost didn't recognize him. He'd clearly dressed for the part, wearing a wrinkled blazer, two sizes too big, and sneakers that had lost the will to live. Clarissa, meanwhile, struck it in like a martyr. Her outfit screaming, "Respect me."
While her expression whispered, "Pity me." The mediator, a weary man named Mr. Hoffman, who looked like he'd seen every brand of marital stupidity, sighed before we even started. All right, folks, he said. Let's try to reach a civil resolution. Clarissa folded her arms.
There's nothing civil about abandonment. I leaned back. Clarissa, you weren't abandoned. You left emotionally months ago, physically last week, and financially the day you let Trent drive you to surgery. Trent cleared his throat.
That's not fair, bro. We're all human. We make mistakes. Speak for yourself. I said, I make spreadsheets, not mistakes.
The mediator held up a hand. Mr. Morrison, let's stay focused. Mrs. Morrison, you're seeking spousal support and partial ownership of the marital home, correct? Yes, she said. She and I, I sacrificed years supporting him while he built his career.
I laughed out loud. You mean the years you spent binge watching reality TV and calling it emotional labor? She glared. I kept our home. Yeah, like Airbnb.
Guests came. Chaos followed. Nothing stayed clean. The mediator sighed. Mr. Morrison, please.
Fine, I said, crossing my arms. Let's get to the child support part. Who exactly am I supposed to be supporting? Clarissa smiled like a magician, revealing her trick. My future children, the mediator blinked.
I'm sorry. I plan to have children with Trent, she said proudly, patting his hand. And I'll need help financially while I recover and adjust. The room fell silent. Even the clock on the wall paused out of disbelief.
Finally, the mediator said, "Mrs. Morrison, are you suggesting your current husband pay for your future children with another man?" She nodded. "It's only fair. I help Luke build his life. He can help me start mine."
The mediator looked at me, then at Howard, then back at her like he was trying to confirm this wasn't a prank. Then perhaps, he said slowly. "Mr. Garrison," he glanced at Trent, "should support you." Trent, bless his confused soul, said, "My art isn't about money."
Howard nearly spit his coffee. "Neither is my patience," I said. The mediator stood up, rubbed his forehead, and muttered, "We're adjourned." I walked out of that building feeling like I just survived a master class in lunacy. Clarissa stormed past me to the parking lot, hissing, "You think this is funny?"
"Yes," I said. Tragically funny, like a clown car on fire. Trent jogged after her, mumbling something about energy alignment. I watched them go, shaking my head. Somewhere, Karma was taking notes.
The next morning, Clarissa posted again. Apparently, she hadn't learned from the last digital fiasco. This time, she uploaded a selfie with Trent, her arm in his captioned, "Love always wins. Hash fresh starts hash new journeys." The comment section was brutal.
Someone wrote, "Didn't she just have surgery last week?" Another said, "Isn't that her married name still?" He dropped another gem. She should hash feud real alimony payments. It got 200 likes in 10 minutes.
Clarissa deleted that one, too. Later that afternoon, she tried calling me twice. I let it go to voicemail. When I finally listened, she was crying. "Luke," she said, voice cracking.