But somehow, I'd thought that once I served Melissa those papers, she'd magically vanish from my daily life like a bad dream or a telemarketer who finally gets the hint. Instead, she just kept existing in my space, growing another man's baby while acting like nothing had fundamentally changed about our situation. The first few weeks after dropping the divorce bomb were like living in some twisted version of The Twilight Zone. Melissa refused to move out, claiming she needed stability during this difficult time.
Apparently, carrying your boss's baby is stressful. Who knew? So we were stuck in this bizarre domestic purgatory where we shared a house, kids, and a mortgage, but absolutely nothing else. She'd set up camp in the guest bedroom, the one we'd always said we'd turn into a home office someday when we had money and motivation.
Now it looked like a nursery showroom had exploded in there. Boxes of baby stuff everywhere, a crib that was still in pieces leaning against the wall, and enough prenatal vitamins to supply a small army of pregnant women. The whole room smelled like that weird combination of new plastic and false hope. The worst part wasn't the constant reminder that my wife was playing house with someone else's genetic material.
No, the worst part was how she kept acting like I was still her husband. Like I was still somehow responsible for taking care of her during her "journey." That's what she called it. A journey.
Like she was climbing Everest instead of just getting knocked up by her boss. "Grant, can you grab me some pickles on your way home?" she'd text me at work like I was still running errands for her instead of actively trying to extract myself from her life. "Grant, can you help me set up the crib? It's really heavy, and I'm not supposed to lift anything over 10 pounds."
"Grant, can you drive me to my doctor's appointment? Charles and Vivien are in Europe for two weeks." Each time, I'd look at my phone and feel this mixture of disbelief and rage that she still thought I was part of Team Melissa. Did she honestly believe that filing for divorce was just some kind of negotiating tactic?
Like I was playing hard to get instead of actually trying to get the hell out of Dodge. My standard response became a masterpiece of emotional detachment. I wouldn't even look up from whatever I was doing, usually my laptop because work had become my escape from the circus my home life had become. "Not my kid, not my problem."
Six words. Simple, direct, and absolutely devastating in their clarity. The first time I said it, Melissa looked like I'd physically slapped her. By the tenth time, she just got this pinched expression around her eyes, like she was developing a permanent migraine from dealing with my unreasonable attitude.
But here's the thing about being pregnant. It doesn't care whether your husband is checked out of the relationship or not. Biology doesn't give a damn about your emotional state or your marital status. So while I was busy practicing my emotional detachment, Melissa was dealing with all the fun stuff that comes with growing a human.