Chapter 10
I walked out of her office into the crisp Portland air feeling a dizzying mixture of absolute empowerment and profound nausea. This wasn’t the woman I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be a tactical mastermind plotting the financial ruin of my husband. I didn’t want to be sixty-two, sitting alone in a lawyer’s office, preparing to detonate my entire existence.
But I hadn’t chosen this path. Michael had chosen it, every single Thursday for eighteen months.
That evening, I went home and I watched him. Really watched him. He was standing at the kitchen island, humming along to some classic rock on his phone, effortlessly chopping vegetables for a stir-fry. He looked completely at ease. His conscience was entirely unburdened. How could he stand in the kitchen we remodeled together, look at the woman he had pledged his life to, and feel absolutely no weight of guilt?
“Good day?” I asked, keeping my voice light as I poured myself a generous glass of Pinot Noir.
“Not bad,” he smiled, tossing the peppers into the wok. “Busy. You know how Thursdays are. Back-to-back portfolio reviews.”
Thursdays. I gripped the stem of my wine glass so hard I thought the crystal might shatter in my hand.
“Michael,” I said carefully, testing the waters of his delusion. “I’ve been thinking. With the business sale wrapping up eventually… maybe we should go away somewhere. Just the two of us. Take a real trip.”
His face lit up with genuine, unfeigned enthusiasm. “Margaret, that sounds wonderful. Honestly, it’s exactly what we need. Once your business stuff is finally settled and the stress is gone, we should definitely do that. Where were you thinking?”
“New Zealand, maybe,” I lied smoothly. “You’ve always wanted to see the fjords.”
“I would love that,” he said softly, walking over and kissing my forehead. He sounded exactly like the man I had married.
Looking at him, a terrifying realization washed over me. He wasn’t pretending. He had compartmentalized his life so perfectly, so ruthlessly, that he could genuinely be the loving, devoted husband to me on Monday, and the passionate lover to Melissa on Thursday, without the two realities ever touching in his mind. He was a monster wearing a very familiar, very comforting mask.
Three days later, I gave Patricia the green light. The waiting was over.
The divorce papers were served to Michael at his downtown financial firm on a Tuesday morning at 10:15 AM.
I wasn’t there to witness it, but my phone started ringing at 10:22. I let it go to voicemail. He called seventeen times in forty minutes. When I finally answered, his voice was a frantic, high-pitched mess of shock and outrage.
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“Margaret! What the hell is this?! A process server just handed me divorce papers in front of the entire reception area! Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“It’s not a joke, Michael,” I said, my voice shockingly calm.
