"I'll give you ten minutes. If you don't do it, I’m not gonna let this slide."
Eric tossed out that little threat right before hanging up, like he was scared I might actually say no.
Back then, anytime he said he was mad, I'd cave. Not because I feared his anger—I just didn't want to pile more stress on him. Thought he was drowning in work, thought I was helping.
Now I knew better.
The chaos? Always his. I was just the one stuck cleaning it up.
Why keep doing that?
[You forgot your card? Ask your secretary. Or Vivien. This trip was for her project anyway. Let her pay for it.]
I fired off the message, shut my phone down, and headed home to pack.
I paid for the house. Every cent.
It was his favorite layout, his pick on the flooring. I even planned to put both our names on the deed... but something held me back. In the end, I wrote down only mine.
Looking back? Thank God I did.
Once everything was packed, I listed the house with a realtor.
The next day, I marched into the courthouse and handed over the signed divorce papers.
Back when we first signed them, I was still wondering how to break it to Eric. But he was already halfway out the door, dragging his suitcase like we were on a tight schedule.
He didn't even glance at the papers. Just flipped to the last page and signed.
"You should read it," I said, still hanging on to some tiny scrap of hope.
"No need. You're my wife. Don't I trust you?"
I smiled—cold and bitter.
Funny. He trusted Vivien with everything else.
That so-called trust? Just another way to brush me off.
Too busy chasing a flight. Too eager to join Vivien on "their" honeymoon.
I handed over the papers. The clerk said I needed proof—from him—that the relationship was actually over.
So I pulled out the receipts: photos of Eric and Vivien posing like a couple. Even brought the wedding photo he'd smashed for her.
Still, the clerk shook her head. "He has to say it himself."
Seriously?
Frustrated, I turned my phone back on.
It lit up like a Christmas tree—missed calls, unread messages. All from Eric.
Since I hadn't unfrozen the card, he'd cycled through the usual: begging, threatening.
The last message? Full-on rage. Swearing at me. Saying he wanted a divorce.
I showed it to the clerk.
She still wasn't budging.
So I called him. Took forever for him to answer.
"Eric, about our relationship—"
"What relationship? You're wasting your breath. If you don't apologize to Vivien, I will divorce you!"
He cut me off, cold. Like he thought I was calling to grovel.
Then he hung up.
That did it. The clerk's face finally softened as she processed the paperwork. "It'll be finalized in a month."
Eric wasn't serious. He never was.
He'd tossed around "divorce" like a threat for years—whenever he got pissed.
And I always folded. Always made peace, gave in, held things together.
He was convinced I'd never actually leave.
To him, "divorce" wasn't an ending. It was a weapon.
