The man standing before me, seething with rage over another woman—I didn't recognize him anymore.
It took an illness to finally show me who I'd been sharing a bed with all these years.
"You ruined the whole mood," Simon snapped. He flagged down the server. "Check, please."
He turned to the group with a practiced smile. "We'll call it a night. I'll treat everyone again soon."
The server returned with the bill. Eighty thousand three hundred and ninety-one dollars.
Simon waved his hand dismissively and paid without blinking.
I almost laughed out loud.
No money to treat his wife's illness. Plenty to wine and dine his mistress.
Simon called a designated driver to take us home. The moment we stepped through the door, he said it.
"Jeanette, let's get divorced."
I paused. "You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure."
"Fine. Then let's discuss how we're splitting the assets."
"There's two hundred thousand left in savings. We each take a hundred. The house and Lowell Coleman stay with me. You don't have a problem with that, do you?"
The audacity hit me like a slap.
"Simon, we've been married ten years. Our savings should be at least three million. And now there's only two hundred thousand left? Are you playing me for a fool?"
My voice rose. "And this house—you bought it with a mortgage. We've been paying it off together. Why should it all go to you? And Lowell is my son too. I'm not giving him up!"
"The savings really are down to two hundred thousand." He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "I forgot to mention—I invested in a small business. Lost it all."
"As for the house, sure, we've both been paying the mortgage. But the deed is in my parents' names. Nothing to do with you."
I slammed my palm on the table. "Simon! When we got married, you told me this house was yours!"
"It is mine. What, I can't put my own house under my parents' names?"
My chest burned. "So this is how you want to play it. Fine. Then I'm not signing anything. Let's see who outlasts who."
"Jeanette!" His face twisted. "How many years do you think you even have left? You don't divorce me, I'll just become a widower!"
I let out a cold laugh. "Then let's wait it out. See which one of us dies first."
Simon grabbed a teacup from the table and hurled it against the wall. Porcelain exploded across the floor.
"Marrying you was the worst decision of my life!"
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame shook.
This time, I didn't care where he went.
I called my lawyer immediately. I needed to know everything—how to handle the divorce, how to investigate Simon's hidden assets, and most importantly, how to fight for custody of my son.
Lowell had heard everything. My eight-year-old was trembling in the corner, his small body shaking like a leaf.
"Mom," he whispered, "are you and Dad getting divorced?"
I pulled him into my arms and held him tight. "Sweetheart, if Mommy and Daddy split up... would you hate me?"
He shook his head against my chest. "It's not your fault. Daddy likes another lady now."
Then he pulled away and reached for something on his desk—the instant camera I'd bought him for his birthday.
"I took a picture," he said quietly. "Of Daddy kissing that lady."
I took the camera with unsteady hands. The photo was still inside.
Simon and Gretchen. In our living room. Lips locked.
My whole body started to shake.
That bastard. He'd brought her here. Into our home. With our son in the house.
And Lowell had seen everything.
"Mommy," Lowell's small voice continued, "I printed the photo, but Daddy took it and tore it up. He told me I wasn't allowed to tell anyone."
I carefully tucked the camera away.
This will be the evidence that ensures Simon leaves this marriage with nothing.
Three days passed. Simon didn't come home.
I didn't care where he was or who he was with. With his condition, if he didn't get treatment, he wouldn't be enjoying himself for much longer anyway.
Gretchen was the one who cracked first.
She started calling me constantly, spewing the vilest insults imaginable. I never said a word back.
I just hit record.
Then she escalated. Started showing up outside my apartment building. Outside my office. Screaming obscenities for anyone to hear.
I still didn't engage.
This evening, I was in the kitchen making dinner for Lowell when a frantic pounding erupted at the front door.
