“You had no right to discuss our finances with him.”
“I didn’t tell him anything he apparently wasn’t already financing.”
“Patrick.”
“Did you use money from our savings toward that condo?”
Silence.
“Melissa?”
“You’ve been spying on me.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“You went through my financial information.”
“I reviewed accounts with my name on them.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Her breathing became uneven.
Then I said, “I know about the mortgage application.”
The silence changed.
“How?”
“Records exist.”
She whispered, “Did you get a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
“Patrick, answer me.”
“I filed before you left.”
Nothing.
For nearly ten seconds I heard only wind and the distant sound of cars.
Then Melissa said, “You filed for divorce before this weekend?”
“Yes.”
“And you let me leave?”
That question stunned me enough that I stood up.
“Let you?”
“You knew where I was going.”
“You told me you were going.”
“You could have stopped me.”
“How?”
“You could have fought for us.”
I laughed once, not because it was funny but because the alternative was shouting.
“I spent months fighting for us.”
“No, you spent months accusing me.”
“I asked you questions.”
“You didn’t trust me.”
“You were planning a condo with another man.”
She started crying.
“I didn’t know what I wanted.”
“You knew enough to apply for a mortgage.”
“That doesn’t mean I was definitely leaving.”
“Then what does leaving with Derek mean?”
She could not answer.
After a long silence, Melissa said something I had heard in different forms for months. “I thought you stopped caring.”
I closed my eyes.
There was a version of me that would have immediately tried proving otherwise. That version had spent too long believing every accusation required a defense.
“I cared enough to keep trying,” I said. “You interpreted that as permission.”