"You don't have to make this cruel. You know, I've always loved you. I just want to be a mother." I sighed for a moment. I almost felt sorry for her almost.
But then I remembered how she'd smiled when she said Trent wants kids with me and that pity evaporated like cheap perfume. I texted Howard. Me. She's playing the sympathy card. Howard, classic move.
Stay quiet. Don't text her back. Me. Already didn't. Howard.
Good. Let her dig her own hole. She's using Facebook as a shovel. By evening, my phone buzzed again. A new number.
I picked up Luke Morrison speaking. This is Channel 9 News. We're running a segment on unconventional divorce cases. Would you be open to an interview? I blinked.
You're kidding. Not at all. The reporter said, "We found the filing fascinating, especially the clause about child support for unborn children from another relationship. It's quite groundbreaking." I grinned.
Groundbreaking? Sure. Like a meteor hitting a trailer park. They laughed. So, can we quote you on that?
Absolutely not, I said, hanging up. Still, I couldn't help chuckling. Clarissa had wanted to go viral for empowerment. Instead, she'd become a headline for delusion. The next day, I took a walk downtown, grabbed a latte, and scrolled through my phone.
My feed was peaceful. No cryptic subtweets, no dramatic photo shoots, just blissful digital silence. Then, as if summoned by irony, my phone pinged again. Message from Clarissa. Clarissa, you think you've won, but you'll regret humiliating me.
Me: No humiliation needed. You did all the heavy lifting. She didn't respond. Probably drafting another hashtag manifesto. That night, I met Howard for drinks.
He raised his glass to you, Luke, the first man in legal history to dodge paying alimony for imaginary babies. I clinked his glass to progress. We laughed, talked about old college days, and toasted to self-preservation. As I drove home later, the street lights blurred in my rear view mirror. And for the first time in months, I felt light, untethered, like I'd escaped a cult I didn't realize I joined.
I pulled into my driveway, the porch light flickering like a quiet applause, and thought about all the ridiculousness of the last few weeks, the Facebook posts, the hashtags, the courtroom circus. And somehow, amid the chaos, it hit me. Clarissa had given me the best gift ever, perspective. Because sometimes the line between love story and lawsuit is just one hashtag away, and I wasn't about to get tagged again. If karma ever gave out medals, Clarissa would have taken gold and bad timing.
Monday morning, I was halfway through a breakfast burrito when my phone buzzeded with a text that read, "You changed the locks." I almost choked laughing. "Of course I did," I typed back. "You changed the husband." "Seemed fair."
5 minutes later, a car pulled into the driveway. Her car, then a second one. Trent's rusty Honda Civic followed right behind, dragging its muffler like it was a shame to be there. I didn't even flinch. I just sat on the porch with my coffee like I was hosting a live episode of The Real Ex-wives of Suburbia.
Clarissa got out first, dramatic as ever, wearing sunglasses the size of dinner plates, one arm wrapped in a brace like she just escaped a car crash. "You can't lock me out of my house," she yelled. I sip my coffee. Correction, my house. Bought it before the wedding, paid every mortgage payment, and legally it's mine.
You just contributed emotional chaos and scented candles. Trent got out next, puffing his chest like he thought he was auditioning for cops. You heard her, bro. Let her in. Trent, I said calmly.
You don't even have the right to be on my property. Technically, I could charge you for loitering and making bad life choices. Clarissa scoffed. We'll see about that. And she wasn't kidding.
She dialed 911 right there on the lawn like it was her personal customer service line. Hello. Yes. My husband locked me out of my marital home. Yes, I live here.
He's being emotionally abusive. I nearly choked. Emotionally abusive. I made coffee and ignored you. That's called self-care.
10 minutes later, a patrol car rolled up. Two officers stepped out. The kind of guys who looked like they'd seen every brand of domestic circus imaginable. One of them glanced between us inside, already tired. All right, folks.
What's going on? Clarissa launched into her story like a contestant on America's Got Lies. He froze my accounts. He changed the locks and now he's trying to leave me homeless. The officer turned to me.
Sir, is that true? Mostly, I said, except the homeless part. She's got a new boyfriend right there. He can house her in his art studio or whatever magical treehouse broke people live in. Trent tried to speak, but the officer raised a hand.
Sir, please, one at a time. I handed over my folder, the deed, the prenup, and Howard's note with sole property highlighted like divine scripture. Here's the ownership premarital asset. Lock for my safety after repeated harassment. The officer flipped through the papers, nodded, and turned to her.
Ma'am, this looks pretty clear. This isn't a criminal issue. It's civil. You'll need to take it up in court. Clarissa's face twisted.
"You mean he can just just keep me out?" "Yes, ma'am," the officer said. "For now?" "Yes," I smirked. "Would you like me to print you a copy of the keyhole for reference?"
Trent muttered. "You think this is funny? I think it's educational," I said. "Welcome to Adult Consequences," Clarissa stomped her foot like a toddler denied ice cream. "You'll regret this."
"Maybe," I said. "But at least I'll regret it from inside my house." As they drove off, I called Howard round one. She brought the cops. He laughed.
Let me guess. Officer told her it's civil. Word for word. I said they even looked like they wanted popcorn. Good.
Now file for exclusive residence. Done yesterday. I said, waiting for the hearing. Well, Howard said she'll probably retaliate. And oh, did she?