That evening, I came home from work to find a bright yellow notice taped to my door. Temporary restraining order, pending hearing. I burst out laughing so hard the mailman across the street stared. I took a photo and texted Howard. Called it.
He replied, "Don't panic." They hand those out like candy. What's she claiming? I scan the fine print. Says I threatened her maternal destiny.
There was a full 30 seconds of silence before his reply. What the hell does that even mean? No idea, I said. Maybe she's trying to trademark the phrase, he sighed. Don't worry, we'll squash it.
Two days later, we were in court. Clarissa showed up in a maternity dress. Not pregnant, just dramatic. Trent was beside her in another one of his creative professional outfits, meaning the same wrinkled blazer and paintstained jeans. The judge, an older woman who looked like she'd rather be golfing, stared at the paperwork for a full minute before saying, "Mrs. Morrison, are you currently expecting a child?"
Clarissa beamed. "Not yet, but hopefully soon." The judge blinked. With Mr. Morrison? Clarissa's face lit up with that tragic optimism she was famous for.
With Mr. Garrison? The judge slowly removed her glasses. Then you can expect elsewhere. I swear I heard Angel sing.
Howard leaned over and whispered. Game set. House. The judge continued. Restraining order denied.
Exclusive residence granted to Mr. Morrison. Mrs. Morrison, you are ordered to vacate immediately and refrain from returning until further proceedings. Clarissa gasped. He manipulated the system. Ma'am, the judge said flatly.
The system's fine. You're just bad at it. Even Trent winced. When the gavel hit the block, I wanted to cheer, but I didn't. I just smiled calm and smug, the smile of a man who just won the emotional Super Bowl.
Outside the courthouse, Clarissa turned on me. "You think you've won, but this isn't over." "Oh, it's very over." I said, "You can't even pick a court outfit without delusion. You wore a maternity dress to a property hearing.
Trent stepped forward trying to puff himself up again. We're building a future, man. You can't stop love. Love? I asked.
Trent, you're a 38-year-old man who paints beach sunsets for Instagram likes. You can't even stop your car from leaking oil. Clarissa gasped. You're cruel. No, Clarissa: I said.
I'm free. They stormed off. I took a deep breath and looked up at the courthouse steps, sunlight hitting my face like divine approval. It felt like closure, or at least halftime in a very stupid game. When I got home, I changed the locks again just for sport, then ordered a pizza.
Half pepperoni, half poetic justice. I watched a movie, laughed too loud, and slept better than I had in months. The next morning, my neighbor Dave came over with his coffee mug. Heard you won in court, he said. The whole block's talking about it.
Small town rumor mill works fast, I said. Clarissa was outside your house yesterday crying and yelling about fertility rights, he said, shaking his head. The mailman filmed it. He's got like 2,000 views already. I grinned.
Guess I'm finally internet famous. Dave chuckled. Man, you're handling this like a champ. Dave, I said after being married to that drama Tornado Courtrooms feel like spas. That weekend, I got an email from Howard officially yours.
Deed and title reaffirmed. Case closed for now. I poured a drink, opened the blinds, and looked around my house. My house. No emotional landmines, no background sighs, no toxic optimism, just quiet.
But quiet never lasts. Monday morning, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Trent again. This time, holding a cardboard box. What is it now?
I asked. He shifted awkwardly. Clarissa wanted me to get her stuff. I raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess.
She's too emotionally fragile to face the locks she doesn't own," he shrugged. "I don't want to get in the middle, bro." "Too late," I said, and handed him a neatly packed box I'd already prepared labeled Clarissa's bad decisions. He took it, confused. "What's in it?"
"Her leftover mail, some hair products, and a few unfinished dreams." He frowned. "That's messed up, man." "No," I said. "Closing the door.
That's closure. Behind the door, I heard him mumble, "Weird, dude." before his car sputtered away. I laughed. Weird or not? I was winning and every wind tasted like peace.
Friday morning began with the soundtrack of chaos, honking cars, distant shouting, and the unmistakable voice of my soon-to-be ex-wife yelling about rights she didn't have. I took a long sip of coffee, savoring the calm before the inevitable circus. The movers were scheduled for 8:00 AM., but Clarissa apparently decided to make it a spectator event. At 7:45, the parade arrived. Her sister Greta's SUV pulled in first, followed by their mother Betty's ancient minivan.
And because the universe has a dark sense of humor, Trent's sad little Civic bringing up the rear duct tape, holding his bumper together like an emotional metaphor. Clarissa hopped out of the front seat, waving her hands dramatically. "We're here to collect my belongings," she announced as if I were supposed to salute. I nodded. Perfect.
The boxes are ready by the door. Try not to take anything that belongs to reality. Betty stepped forward, holding her purse like a shield. You can't talk to her that way. She's been through trauma.
Trauma? I said, raising an eyebrow. She had elective surgery and a delusional boyfriend. She's not a war veteran. Greta gasped.
You're heartless. No, I said I'm healed. There's a difference. That's when I revealed my secret weapon. Two off-duty cops I'd hired for the day standing on the porch sipping coffee.
Officer Reynolds and Officer Jenkins. Good guys, no nonsense and definitely not in the mood for dramatics. Reynolds nodded politely. Morning, ma'am. We're just here to keep things civil.
Clarissa blinked. See, civil? You called the police? I shrugged. You called them last time.