Chapter 17
Chapter 17:
The message from Meredith arrived that afternoon, while I was organizing my evidence folder.
He doesn’t love you anymore. Why can’t you see that? Let him go.
I stared at the screen for a long moment. Then I typed back:
Interesting advice from a woman who got depressed after her divorce because she was caught being the other woman. How does it feel to be the homewrecker this time around?
Her response was immediate: I’M not the homewrecker. YOU are. Nathan was MINE first. You stole him!
I laughed out loud. Actually laughed, for the first time in what felt like years.
Honey, I typed, if I “stole” him, why is he still married to me? Why hasn’t he left? Why are you the one hiding while I’m the one with the legal rights? I paused, then added: Get him to sign the divorce papers and maybe I’ll consider sending you a certificate of achievement. Until then, stay out of my marriage.
I blocked her before she could respond. Some conversations aren’t worth continuing.
The next week was all preparation.
I pulled bank records. Tracked credit card statements. Documented every lie, every absence, every piece of evidence that painted the picture of a man who’d been unfaithful for months. The original divorce agreement I’d left on the counter had been generous—I’d been too desperate to escape to think about fairness.
This time would be different.
Your imagination thrives at puntocom
This time, I wanted everything I was entitled to. The apartment we’d bought together. The savings we’d accumulated. The investments he’d made with our joint income. All of it.
When I was satisfied with my documentation, I unblocked Nathan’s number and sent a single text: We need to meet. Come to my parents’ house tomorrow at 2pm.
His response was almost embarrassingly eager: I knew you’d come around! I’m so happy, Viv. We’re going to be okay. I don’t blame you for what happened with the baby—we can try again when you’re ready.
I read the message twice. I don’t blame you. As if my choice to end the pregnancy was something he had the power to forgive. As if my body, my future, my trauma was something that required his absolution.
What an imbecile, I thought, and found that I meant it. The love was gone—burned away by his casual cruelties, his pathological dishonesty, his staggering inability to see me as anything other than an extension of himself. What remained was something colder and more useful: contempt.