Chapter 13
“My key is not working. Open the door. I need my work laptop and my golf clubs.”
I typed my reply carefully.
“Your personal items will be boxed and delivered to your new apartment on Tryon Street by a bonded courier this afternoon. All further communication must go through Sarah’s office.”
I set the phone facedown.
He didn’t reply.
He stood on the porch for another three minutes before turning around and walking back to his car.
That was the last time he ever stood on my property.
The divorce took eight months.
It was a tedious, grinding war of attrition fought entirely through email attachments and conference calls.
Anyone who tells you divorce is a fiery battle of passion has never actually divided a two-decade marriage.
It is a grueling exercise in accounting.
We didn’t scream at each other across a courtroom.
We paid lawyers four hundred dollars an hour to argue over the fair market valuation of the house in Myers Park.
We spent three weeks trading spreadsheets regarding the division of our retirement accounts and the equity in his leased sedan.
At one point, his attorney drafted a four-page formal demand for the basement treadmill.
I told Sarah to let him have it.
I bought a new one the next day.
It was cheaper than paying her hourly rate to debate cardiovascular equipment.
While Thomas was fighting over gym equipment, Paul, the forensic accountant, finished his audit.
The twelve thousand dollars Thomas had transferred for the apartment lease was just the beginning.
Paul went through three years of bank statements, credit card logs, and cash withdrawals.
He tracked the weekend trips to Asheville.
He found the expensive dinners in SouthPark, the jewelry purchases, and the luxury car rentals.
Every time Thomas had told me he was taking a client out to secure a contract, he was actually spending marital funds on Jessica.
Paul tallied every single receipt.
The final number of dissipated assets was forty-two thousand dollars.
Sarah didn’t ask Thomas to write a check to pay it back.
She simply added the forty-two thousand dollars to my column on the final asset division ledger.
When we sold the house, that amount was deducted directly from his share of the equity and transferred to my new, individual bank account.
He essentially financed his own affair, and then he had to pay me back for every single dinner, every hotel room, and every glass of wine he bought for his mistress.
The financial reality of the divorce hit Thomas hard, but it hit Jessica harder.
She had signed up for a wealthy regional sales director who drove a luxury car and hosted fifteen-thousand-dollar private dinners.
She expected to move into a secure, comfortable life funded by my invisible labor.
Instead, she found herself living in a downtown apartment with a fifty-five-year-old man who was drowning in legal fees, whose commission checks were heavily garnished by the property settlement, and who suddenly couldn’t afford premium open bars.
I never spoke to Jessica.
I never needed to.
I heard through mutual acquaintances that she broke the lease and moved out of the downtown apartment four months before our divorce was finalized.
She realized very quickly that the empire Thomas bragged about was entirely built on my balance sheets.
Without my income, he was just a middle-aged salesman with bad credit and a very expensive lawyer.
Thomas was left alone in the apartment he had stolen money to rent.
His friends from the Capital Grille stopped calling him for weekend golf trips.
Mike and David slowly distanced themselves, treating his financial collapse like a contagious disease.
Corporate executives do not associate with men who cannot control their own liabilities.
I spent the autumn months finalizing the transfer of deeds and updating my estate planning.
I worked late at the firm.
I went to the gym.
I ate dinner in my quiet kitchen.
I didn’t feel a sudden, overwhelming wave of triumph.
I just felt a deep, profound sense of order returning to my life.
The math was finally correct.
Eleven months after the birthday dinner at the Capital Grille, I stood in the kitchen of my house in Myers Park.
The morning air was crisp, and the autumn sunlight filtered through the large windows, catching the steam rising from my ceramic coffee mug.
The house was entirely quiet.
The deed to the property now bore exactly one name.
My name.
On the granite counter, right next to my laptop, sat a single sheet of heavy bond paper.
It was the final invoice from Sarah’s law firm.
The bold text at the bottom of the page indicated the remaining balance due was twenty-eight thousand four hundred and fifty dollars.
May you like
That is a significant amount of money.
It is a kitchen renovation.
