That's not Those things aren't connected. Of course, they're connected. You were trapped in a marriage where you'd lied about something fundamental, something you couldn't keep hiding forever. So, you found an exit strategy. You started an affair knowing it would eventually be discovered.
Knowing it would end things in a way that made me the injured party instead of you, the person who didn't want kids. You get to be the cheater who made a mistake instead of the wife who deliberately deceived her husband about their entire future. She shook her head violently. No, no, I didn't plan it like that. I didn't start things with Marcus to end our marriage.
It just happened and it felt good. And I you what? You didn't think about the consequences. You didn't consider that actions have meanings. I stood up, too agitated to sit anymore.
Here's what I think happened, Rachel. I think you realized years ago that you'd sold me a version of our future that you didn't actually want. I think you knew you couldn't maintain that life forever. And I think when Marcus showed interest, when he offered you attention and excitement in a way out, you took it. Not because you love him, though maybe you do.
I don't know, but because he represented escape from a truth you didn't want to tell. You're wrong. But her voice had no conviction. What am I? Then explain the timeline.
Explain why your affair started within weeks of us beginning fertility treatments. Explain why you refilled your birth control prescription the same week we met with a reproductive endocrinologist. Explain why every step I took toward the family we supposedly both wanted, you took a corresponding step towards someone else. She had no answer. Just sat there surrounded by evidence of her betrayals, plural, looking smaller and more lost than I'd ever seen her.
I didn't marry Marcus to have kids, she said finally. I married you for you, for us. Why? Why wasn't that enough? Because people change, Rachel.
People want different things as they grow older. And when that happens, when you realize your goals don't align anymore, you talk about it. You don't lie about it. I sat back down suddenly exhausted. If you told me 5 years ago that you didn't want children, I would have been disappointed.
I'll be honest about that. But we could have talked it through, maybe found a compromise, or maybe decided we wanted different futures, and parted as friends. Instead, you lied for 5 years, wasted a year of my life on fake fertility struggles and had an affair that destroyed any possibility of us ending things amicably. What do you want from me? She was pleading now.
You want me to say I'm a terrible person? Fine, I'm terrible. I'm a liar and a cheater, and I ruined everything good we had. Is that what you need to hear? I need you to understand that this isn't just about the affair.
It's about the fundamental dishonesty that made the affair possible. You've been lying to me about who you are and what you want for most of our marriage. Marcus is just the most visible symptom of a much deeper disease. I pulled one more document from the envelope, the last one. This is an amendment to our divorce agreement.
In addition to the 50/50 asset split, I'm requesting reimbursement for all fertility related expenses from the past year. Doctor's visits, medications, treatments, everything we spent trying to conceive a child that you were actively preventing. It comes to about $12,000. She stared at the paper. You're billing me for trying to have a baby.
I'm billing you for lying about trying to have a baby. There's a difference. This is She laughed a broken sound. This is insane. This is vindictive and petty and it's fair.
I interrupted. You used our joint funds to pursue an affair. I'm asking you to reimburse me for funds I spent based on your lies. If you think that's unreasonable, we can let a judge decide. I'm sure they'll be very interested in hearing about how you defrauded your husband regarding fertility treatments while conducting an extrammarital affair.
She looked at me with something like hatred. You've really thought of everything, haven't you? Every anger, every punishment, every way to make me suffer. I've thought about the truth and the cost of hiding it. I stood up again, walked to the window, looked out at the fog, shrouded street.
You can pack your things now. Take whatever you want. Furniture, photos, kitchen stuff. I don't care. I'll have my lawyer send over the amended agreement.
You have a week to review it before I file. And if I don't sign, then we go to court. I present all of this to a judge. The affair, the landlas, the birth control, deception, all of it. And I let them decide how to divide our assets.
But I promise you, Rachel, it won't be 50/50. Not when fraud is involved. She gathered up the papers with shaking hands, stuffed them back into the envelope. I came here to pick up my things, not to be ambushed with. You ambushed me with six months of betrayal.
I ambushed you with one morning of truth. I think I'm being generous with the ratio. She stood, grabbed her purse, started toward the stairs, then stopped, and turned back. For what it's worth, I really did think I'd change my mind about wanting kids. I really did think that maybe if we kept trying, I'd wake up one day and feel ready.
I didn't set out to deceive you, but you did deceive me. And when you realize the deception was getting harder to maintain, you found someone else instead of finding honesty. That's the part you don't seem to understand. Rachel, the affair isn't the worst thing you did. The worst thing you did was trap me in a marriage built on lies and then blame me for not seeing through them.