My wife texted, “I want a divorce.” All communication through my lawyer. I replied, “Understood.” Then I cancelled her credit cards, trips, and cut all financial support. 24 hours later, her lawyer was frantically calling me. Look, I’m not saying Monday mornings are universally terrible, but they do have this special talent for kicking you in the teeth when you least expect it. There I was, standing in front of my bathroom mirror at exactly 8:12 a.m.

doing the most mundane thing a human being can do, brushing my teeth. I had my electric toothbrush humming away like a tiny jackhammer against my mers, foam building up in the corners of my mouth like I was auditioning for a rabies awareness campaign when my phone lit up on the counter. The buzz was innocent enough.

 The kind of notification sound that usually means someone’s tagged you in a meme or your credit card company wants to remind you that yes, you did spend $47 at Taco Bell last Tuesday. And no, they’re not judging you, but maybe you should be judging yourself.

 I glanced down at the screen, still midbrush, still blissfully unaware that my entire existence was about to get dropkicked into a different dimension. The message was from Sarah, my wife. Well, technically still my wife at that exact moment, though. That status was about to have the lifespan of a mayfly. No cute good morning text. No.

 Hey babe, can you grab milk on the way home? Nothing normal. Just eight words that might as well have been carved into stone tablets and delivered by a very disappointed angel. I want a divorce. All communication through my lawyer. I stood there, toothbrush still vibrating in my hand like it was trying to escape the sheer awkwardness of the situation.

And I swear I could feel my brain doing that thing where it completely shortcircuits. You know that moment when your computer freezes and the little rainbow will just spins and spins? Yeah, that was happening inside my skull. Toothpaste started dripping down my chin in slow motion and I’m pretty sure I looked like a discount version of the Joker having an existential crisis.

 No emojis, no explanation, no we need to talk or I’ve been thinking or literally any other sentence that might have softened the blow. Just the emotional equivalent of getting an invoice in the mail. Except this invoice was for the complete demolition of everything I thought I knew about my life for a solid 30 seconds. I just stared at those words.

 I read them once, twice, three times, hoping maybe autocorrect had seriously screwed up and she’d actually meant I want a diversity course or I want a devout horse or literally anything else that made more sense than what I was reading. But nope, the word stayed the same. Divorce, lawyer, end of discussion.

 It was like getting fired via text, except instead of losing a job, I was losing a whole person who allegedly loved me at some point. Probably. Maybe. I think I finally shut off the toothbrush because the buzzing was starting to feel like a metaphor for the screaming inside my head. And I rinsed my mouth out while mentally calculating how many different ways a Monday morning could go wrong.

 I thought maybe I’d spill coffee on myself or get stuck in traffic or realize I’d worn two different shoes. You know, normal Monday disasters. Getting divorced texted while covered in Colgate was not on my bingo card. I wiped my mouth with a hand towel. checked my reflection and saw a guy who looked exactly like me except his eyes had that thousand-y stare you usually only see in war documentaries.

The thing about shock is that it makes you weirdly calm. Like your brain knows that if it lets you feel everything all at once, you’ll probably just collapse into a pile of confused limbs on the bathroom floor. So instead, it hits you with this eerie sense of detachment. I looked at my phone again, read the message one more time.

 Then I did what any reasonable person would do when their spouse nukes their marriage via text message. I checked to see if she’d blocked me yet. She hadn’t. Interesting. So, she wanted the divorce, but still wanted to be able to see if I’d respond. Classic having your cake and eating it too behavior, except the cake was our marriage.

 And apparently, she’d already decided it tasted like disappointment. By 8:27, I’d wiped the rest of the toothpaste off my face, splashed some cold water on my cheeks for good measure, and stood there gripping the edges of the sink like I was about to deliver a motivational speech to my own reflection.

 What was I supposed to do here? beg, cry, call her, and ask what the hell happened between last night when we were watching some terrible reality show about people renovating houses in Idaho and this morning when she apparently decided I was disposable. For about 5 seconds, I considered all of those options.

 Then I remembered something my dad told me once when I was 16 and got dumped by my girlfriend at a Dairy Queen. Son, when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. Also, never trust someone who orders their Blizzard upside down and then complains when it falls out. I typed back a single word. No paragraph explaining my confusion. No questions about why or how or what I did wrong.

 No desperate plea for reconsideration. Just one word that felt like closing a book I’d been reading for way too long without realizing the plot had stopped making sense chapters ago. Understood. I hit send and watch the little delivered notification pop up there. Done. If she wanted it clinical and cold, I could do clinical and cold. I could outdetach her detachment.

 I could be so calm about this that historians would study my text message response in future relationship courses as an example of next level emotional composure. Or maybe I was just numb. Hard to tell the difference at 8 28.

 on a Monday morning when your wife has just informed you via text that your marriage has the same status as a canceled Netflix subscription. Then something clicked in my brain. Not the sad, defeated kind of click, the strategic kind. The kind of click you hear in heist movies right before someone says, “I’ve got a plan.” She wanted all communication through lawyers. Fine. She wanted to make this official and business-like. Perfect.

 Two could play this game. except I was about to play it with the efficiency of someone who actually reads terms and conditions and keeps spreadsheets for fun. I walked out of the bathroom, grabbed my laptop from the bedroom, and sat down at the kitchen table.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 My coffee from earlier was still warm, which felt like a small miracle in a morning that had otherwise gone completely off the rails. I opened my computer, cracked my knuckles like I was about to hack into the Pentagon, and launch what I would later refer to as Operation Freedom. It had a nice ring to it. Dramatic, sure, but when your spouse divorces you via text while you’re battling plaque buildup, you’re allowed a little drama.

First stop, the joint bank accounts. We had three of them: checking, savings, and one we’d open specifically for vacations that we never actually took because Sarah always found something more important to spend money on, like another subscription box for artisal candles or a yoga retreat in Sedona that cost more than my first car.

 I logged into each one methodically and carefully and did what any person protecting their assets would do. I didn’t drain them. I’m not a monster, but I did freeze her access to the cards. All of them. Every single piece of plastic that connected to our joint finances got suspended faster than you can say marital assets.

 Within 20 minutes, I’d contacted the bank, explained the situation with the calm demeanor of someone ordering a sandwich, and had them issue new cards to my address only. Next up, the trips. Oh, the trips. Sarah had approximately four vacations booked over the next 6 months, all on the joint credit card. All the places I’d never agreed to go.

There was the Bali girls trip next week with her sister Lauren and three friends whose names I could never remember because they all looked like they shopped at the same Instagram boutique. There was a weekend spa retreat in Napa that cost more than my monthly car payment.

 And there was some kind of wellness festival in Costa Rica that involved sound baths and crystal healing and probably a lot of overpriced smoothies. I went through each booking, found the cancellation policies, and started clicking. Cancel, cancel, cancel. It was therapeutic, honestly, like popping bubble wrap, except each pop represented hundreds of dollars returning to accounts she could no longer access. The satisfaction was immediate and visceral.

 I imagined her trying to use her card at Starbucks later and getting that apologetic decline message. I pictured her opening her email to confirm her Bali flight and seeing the cancellation notice. I could practically hear the sound of her artisal candles shattering in the background of whatever emotional meltdown was about to occur. And honestly, it felt good.

 Not in a cruel way, but in a natural consequences of your own actions kind of way. She wanted lawyers. She got lawyers. She wanted separation. She got separation all the way down to the penny. By the time I finished my coffee and closed my laptop, it was barely 9:30 in the morning.

 I’d been divorced, texted, emotionally processed, and financially strategic all before most people had finished their first meeting of the day. I sat back in my chair, looked around my kitchen, our kitchen, though not for much longer, and felt something I hadn’t felt in months, maybe years. It wasn’t happiness exactly. It wasn’t sadness either. It was something else entirely. Peace.

 Actual, genuine, no strings attached peace. The kind of quiet satisfaction you get when you delete 200 unread work emails in one click and watch that little red notification bubble disappear into nothing. The silence that followed my morning of financial rearranging was, and I mean this sincerely, absolutely priceless.

 No arguments, no explaining, no justifying why I did what I did. just me, my coffee, and the sound of my own breathing without someone asking me why I breathe so loud or if I’m mad about something or whether I remembered to take out the trash. I didn’t feel victorious. I didn’t feel vindictive.

 I just felt done like I’d been carrying something heavy for a long time and finally got permission to set it down. I looked at my phone one more time. No new messages. No, wait. I didn’t mean it or we need to talk about this. Just that original text sitting there like a tombstone for a relationship that had apparently died without me noticing.

 And you know what? I was okay with that. More than okay. I was ready. She wanted a divorce. She got a divorce. She wanted lawyers. She got lawyers. She wanted separation. Well, congratulations, Sarah. You got separation with a side of immediate consequences and a garnish of be careful what you wish for.

 I stood up, rinsed my coffee mug, and started getting ready for work like it was any other Monday. Because at the end of the day, that’s exactly what it was, just another Monday. Except this one came with a bonus plot twist and a master class.

 And what happens when you underestimate the guy who pays attention to details, keeps receipts, and knows exactly how to click cancel on 11 different websites before 10:00 a.m. Game on, Sarah. Game on. By the time noon rolled around, I’d already accomplished more than most people do in a week. And I’m including people who actually have their lives together and use those fancy planners with the motivational quotes on every page.

 I’d gone to work, sat through a meeting about quarterly projections that I absolutely did not retain a single word of, responded to approximately 47 emails with the kind of professional efficiency that would make a robot jealous, and somehow managed to not mention to a single co-worker that my wife had blown up our marriage via text message that morning. Greg from accounting asked me how my weekend was, and I said, “Pretty good. Caught up on some shows.

” which was technically true if you don’t count the part where my entire existence got rearranged between brushing my teeth and my second cup of coffee. But the real accomplishment of the morning, I’d retained a lawyer. Not just any lawyer either. I’d gone straight for the big guns.

 Attorney Bruce Langford, a man whose reputation preceded him like a fog machine at a concert. I’d heard about Bruce through a buddy of mine who’d gone through a messy divorce two years ago and came out the other side with his house, his dog, and his dignity. somehow intact, which in divorce terms is basically winning the lottery.

 My buddy had described Bruce as the kind of guy who smiles like he eats subpoenas for breakfast and washes them down with the tears of opposing council, which honestly sounded exactly like what I needed. I’d called Bruce’s office at 9:47 a.m. right after my morning of financial reorganization. And his secretary, a woman named Diane, who sounded like she’d heard every soba story in the book and was thoroughly unimpressed by all of them, had somehow squeezed me in for an 11:30 appointment.

“You’re lucky,” she’d said in a tone that suggested I was anything but lucky. “Someone just canled. Be here on time or you lose the slot.” “Yes, ma’am. I’d shown up at 11:23, sat in a waiting room that had leather chairs nicer than my couch and magazines from this actual month instead of 2019, and waited for my name to be called like I was about to see the principal.

 Bruce’s office was exactly what you’d expect from a lawyer who charges more per hour than most people make in a day. Darkwood everything, law books lining the walls like he’d raided a library, and a desk so big you could land a small aircraft on it. The man himself was in his mid-50s. Gray hair perfectly styled suit that probably cost more than my wedding did.

 And these sharp blue eyes that looked like they could see right through whatever story you were about to tell him and identify the three parts you were lying about. He shook my hand with the grip of someone who’d never lost an arm wrestling match in his life and gestured for me to sit. Mark, right? Diane said, “You’ve got a situation.” He sat down, folded his hands on his desk like a movie villain about to explain his master plan, and waited.

 No small talk. No, how are you feeling? Or, this must be difficult. Just straight to business, which honestly I appreciated more than any of the sympathy I’d been dreading all morning. I pulled out my phone and showed him the text, the divorce text, the one that had already become seared into my brain like a bad tattoo. Bruce read it and I watched his face for some kind of reaction.

 Shock, sympathy, maybe even a wse of secondhand embarrassment. Nothing. The man had a poker face that would make professional gamblers weep with envy. He handed my phone back and leaned back in his chair. The kind of lean that said he’d seen this exact scenario about 400 times before.

 “And what did you do after receiving this?” he asked, his voice calm and measured. like he was asking me what I’d had for breakfast instead of how I’d responded to my marriage imploding. I told him everything. The frozen accounts, the canceled trips, the strategic separation of finances that I’d executed with the precision of someone who’d been waiting for an excuse to organize something.

 I explained about the Bali trip, the spa weekends, the joint credit cards that were now very much not joint. I showed him screenshots, timestamps, confirmation emails. I brought receipts, literal and figurative, and I laid them all out like I was presenting evidence at trial. Bruce listened to the whole thing without interrupting once, which was unnerving because most people can’t go 30 seconds without interjecting with their own opinion or story about their cousin’s neighbor’s divorce.

 When I finished, he was quiet for a moment, just looking at me with those sharp eyes, and I started to wonder if maybe I’d overdone it. Maybe I’d been too aggressive. Maybe I should have just curled up in a ball and cried like a normal person instead of going full financial lockdown before my morning coffee had even worn off. Then Bruce smiled.

 Not a big smile, but enough of one that I could see it. “You’re calm,” he said like he was observing a rare species of bird. “I like that. Calm men are dangerous.” I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a warning, but I decided to take it as the former because I needed a win today and I’d take it wherever I could get it. Bruce started asking questions.

 When did we get married? Any kids whose name was on the house? What assets did we have? Were there any prenups? And I answered everything as straightforwardly as possible. No kids, thank God, because the idea of having to cope with someone who divorced texted me was nightmare fuel. The house was in both our names.

 No prenup because we’d gotten married young and stupid and thought love was enough, which in retrospect was adorable and idiotic in equal measure. Here’s what we’re going to do, Bruce said, pulling out a legal pad and starting to write notes and handwriting that looked like it belonged in a doctor’s office. You did the right thing protecting your assets. Don’t touch anything else.

 Don’t contact her. Don’t respond to her family. Don’t post anything on social media. I don’t care if it’s a meme about the weather. Don’t do it. Everything goes through me now. Understood. Understood. I said, which seemed to be my word of the day. Good. I’ll file a response to her petition.

 We’ll start discovery and we’ll see what she’s actually asking for. My guess, she’s expecting you to roll over. People who send divorce texts usually are. He looked up from his notes, and that slight smile was back. They don’t expect the other person to have their ducks in a row before lunch. I left Bruce’s office at 12:14 p.m. Feeling something I hadn’t expected to feel. Confident. Not happy, not sad, just confident.

 Like I’d hired the right person for the job, and could actually trust someone else to handle the legal nightmare while I focused on not losing my mind. I walked to my car, sat in the driver’s seat for a minute, and realized I was hungry. Not just regular hungry, but the kind of hungry you get when you’ve had the most insane morning of your life and your body is like, “Hey, remember me? I need fuel and also maybe therapy, but let’s start with food.

” I drove home to my house, which was still my house and would remain my house if Bruce had anything to say about it, and walked into a kitchen that felt different somehow, quieter, emptier, but not in a sad way, just in a factual way. Sarah’s coffee mug wasn’t in the sink.

 Her laptop wasn’t on the counter, surrounded by 17 open tabs of online shopping sites. Her shoes weren’t kicked off by the door in that way that always made me trip over them. It was just my space now, and I could do whatever I wanted with it. I made myself a turkey sandwich. Not because I’m some kind of culinary genius, but because turkey sandwiches are simple and reliable and don’t require you to think too hard, which was good because my brain had already done enough thinking for one day.

 I used the good bread, the kind Sarah always said was too expensive, but I bought anyway because sometimes you need bread that doesn’t taste like cardboard. I added lettuce, tomato, a little mayo, some mustard, and a slice of cheese that may or may not have been past its prime butt. Smelled fine, so I went with it.

 No drama, no crying into my coffee. No standing in the kitchen wondering where everything went wrong. Just me, my sandwich, and a legal plan that was already in motion. I ate at the kitchen table scrolling through my phone and deliberately not looking at Sarah’s Instagram because that way lay madness and probably a lot of vague posting about betrayal or strength or whatever divorce people post about when they’re trying to look philosophical.

 Instead, I opened up my banking app and looked at the accounts I’d reorganized that morning. Everything was clean, separated, organized. My money was my money. Her money would be her money once the lawyers figured out the split. No more joint anything except maybe joint custody of the Netflix account. And honestly, she could have it. I’d get my

 own. At 2 p.m., I did something that felt weirdly powerful. I logged into every subscription service we shared and started cancelling the spa membership that cost $200 a month and that I’d never used once because I’m not a hot stone massage and cucumber water kind of guy.

 Cancelled the meal kit delivery service that sent us ingredients for recipes we never cooked because we always ended up ordering pizza instead. Cancelled the premium streaming service that Sarah used to watch reality shows about people dramatically falling in love on tropical islands. Cancelled the airline frequent flyer account that was tied to our joint credit card and had enough miles banked for that Bali trip.

 I called them, explained there had been fraudulent activity on the account, which wasn’t technically a lie because I definitely hadn’t authorized a girl’s trip to Bali, and they froze everything pending investigation. “Thank you for catching this, sir,” the customer service rep said, sounding genuinely grateful that I’d caught the fraud.

 “You’re welcome,” I said, and I meant it. I was very welcome. The most welcome I’d been in months. By the time I finished my sandwich and my afternoon of subscription cancellations, something had shifted. For the first time in years, and I mean years, plural, like at least three or four, I felt something strange and unfamiliar creeping into my chest. It wasn’t happiness exactly.

 It wasn’t relief either. It was quiet satisfaction. The kind of feeling you get when you delete 200 unread work emails in one click and watch that notification number drop to zero. The kind of peace that comes from knowing you did everything right, everything sma

rt, and everything necessary. I’d been divorced texted at 8:12 a.m. and by 2:30 p.m. I had a lawyer, a plan, and a turkey sandwich. If that wasn’t winning, I didn’t know what was. Tuesday, 2:17 p.m. I was in the middle of a relatively peaceful work from home afternoon, responding to emails about budget allocations and pretending to care about a PowerPoint presentation someone had sent me with the subject line urgent. Please review ASAP.

 Even though nothing in corporate America has ever truly been urgent, except maybe that one time someone microwaved fish in the break room and we had to evacuate. I had my laptop open, a fresh cup of coffee next to me, and I was actually starting to think that maybe, just maybe, I could get through one full day without my personal life exploding into a dumpster fire of drama and complications. That’s when my phone rang.

 not buzzed, not pinged, rang with the actual ringtone I’d assigned to Sarah’s family members, which was unfortunately the default iPhone sound because I’d never bothered to customize it into something more accurate, like an air raid siren or the Jaws theme. I looked at the screen and saw the name I’d been half expecting but fully dreading.

 Lauren, Sarah’s sister, also known as the family megaphone, also known as the woman who’d cornered me at Thanksgiving three years ago to tell me I wasn’t supporting Sarah’s dreams because I’d suggested that maybe starting a candle business called Wick Edg Good Vibes wasn’t the most financially sound investment when we had credit card debt.

 I stared at the phone for a solid five rings, watching it vibrate across my desk like it was trying to escape, and I seriously considered letting it go to voicemail. But here’s the thing about people like Lauren. If you don’t answer, they just call back and back and back. They’ll call 17 times in a row and then text you, “Are you okay?” Like, the only possible reason you didn’t answer is because you’re currently being attacked by bears. So, I took a deep breath, prepared myself for whatever verbal assault was about to come through my

speaker, and answered, “Hello, Lauren. What the hell did you do, Mark?” Her voice came through so loud I actually had to pull the phone away from my ear. I’m talking air horn levels of volume. She sounded like a sports commentator who’ just watched their team lose in overtime.

 Except the team was her sister and the game was my marriage and apparently I was the villain who’d sabotaged the whole thing. I took a sip of my coffee mostly to buy myself 3 seconds of time to formulate a response that wouldn’t immediately escalate this into a full-blown screaming match. I did exactly what Sarah asked me to do, Lauren. All communication through lawyers.

 That’s a direct quote, by the way. Would you like me to forward you the text? There was a pause on the other end, and I could practically hear her brain trying to process the fact that I wasn’t immediately apologizing or begging for forgiveness or doing whatever it was she’d expected me to do. She’s crying, Mark. She’s been crying all day.

 She can’t access any of her accounts. Her trip got cancelled. She has no money. Then maybe she should text her lawyer. I said, keeping my voice as calm and level as someone ordering a sandwich at Subway. I’m not customer support. She wanted separation. She got separation all the way down to the bank accounts. You’re being cruel.

 Lauren’s voice had reached that pitch that only dogs and dolphins can usually hear. She made a mistake. She was emotional. You can’t just cut her off like this. Actually, Lauren, I can. And I did. And it’s not cruel. It’s logical. She said she wanted a divorce and all communication through lawyers. So that’s what she’s getting. Divorce and lawyers. It’s like ordering a combo meal. You get what you asked for. I was being petty.

 I knew I was being petty. But honestly, after 24 hours of having my entire life rearranged, I’d earned a little pettiness. I’d earned a whole pettiness buffet. She didn’t mean it like that. She just needed space. Then she should have said, “I need space, not I want a divorce.” Words mean things, Lauren.

 I know that’s a wild concept, but when someone texts you, I want a divorce, it’s generally not code for, let’s take a week to think things over. I could feel my blood pressure rising, which was annoying because I’d been so calm up until this point.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I’d been the picture of composed rationality, but there’s something about being told that you’re the bad guy for following someone else’s explicit instructions that really gets under your skin. Lauren huffed into the phone. One of those dramatic exhales that people do when they want you to know they think you’re being unreasonable. You know what, Mark? You’re being a child about this. A petty, vindictive child.

 And yet, I’m the one who hired a lawyer and protected my assets instead of sending divorce texts at 8:00 a.m. like I’m breaking up with someone via post-it note. Funny how that works. I was done. Completely done. Look, Lauren, I appreciate you calling to yell at me. Truly, it’s been a highlight of my afternoon.

 But like I told Sarah, all communication through lawyers, that includes her flying monkeys. Flying monkeys? Are you seriously? Have a great day, Lauren. Say hi to your husband for me. And I hung up, just clicked the red button, and ended the call like I was cancelling yet another subscription service I didn’t need.

 My hand was shaking a little bit, not from anger exactly, but from that adrenaline rush you get when you stand up for yourself after years of just nodding along to keep the peace. It felt good. Scary, but good. Like jumping off a diving board when you’re not entirely sure how deep the water is, but you’re already in the air, so there’s no going back now.

 I set my phone down on my desk, face down, because I knew Lauren well enough to know she’d either call back immediately or text me a novel about how disappointed she was in me and how Sarah deserved better and blah blah blah. I didn’t want to see it. Not right now. Maybe not ever. I went back to my laptop, tried to focus on the budget allocation spreadsheet that definitely still wasn’t urgent despite what the email subject line claimed, and poured myself more coffee because this day required caffeine levels that probably weren’t FDA approved.

 For about 45 minutes, everything was quiet, peaceful even. I finished the spreadsheet, sent it off with a note that said, “Per your request,” even though nobody had actually requested it in those words, and started organizing my inbox by priority. Then, right as I was starting to relax again, my email pinged.

 Not a work email, a personal one. Subject line, urgent spousal financial interference. Oh, this was going to be good. I opened it and found a message from Sarah’s lawyer, a guy named Richard Chu, who I’d never met, but whose email signature had approximately 15 credentials after his name, like he was collecting letters of the alphabet as a hobby.

 The email was three paragraphs of legal jargon that basically boiled down to, “Your client has engaged in financial abuse by cutting off access to joint accounts and cancelling shared expenses without notice or consultation, causing severe emotional and financial distress to my client. And if this continues, we’ll be forced to pursue emergency injunctive relief.” Financial abuse. They were calling it financial abuse.

 I read that line three times to make sure I wasn’t having a stroke or hallucinating or somehow misunderstanding basic English. The woman who divorced texted me and demanded all communication go through lawyers was now claiming I was abusing her by. Following her instructions, the mental gymnastics required for that argument deserved an Olympic gold medal.

 I laughed, not a little chuckle, but a full-on head thrown back. Nearly spilled my coffee laugh that echoed through my empty house and probably made my neighbors wonder if I’d finally lost it. Then I did what any reasonable person with receipts, screenshots, and a lawyer who charged by the hour would do. I hit reply, attached every single piece of evidence I had.

 bank statements, text message screenshots with timestamps, cancellation confirmations, the original divorce text in all its 8:12 a.m. glory, and wrote a response so polite and professional, it could have been used as a template in a business communication course. Dear Mr.

 Chun, please find attached documentation showing that all account modifications were made in direct response to your client’s explicit request for divorce and lawyer only communication. The attached text message clearly shows her directive. All actions taken were to protect assets during a separation that she initiated. Additionally, you’ll find confirmation that essential expenses, including groceries, were maintained and delivered to her residence. I have CCD my attorney, Bruce Langford, for his review. Best regards, Mark.

 I copied Bruce on the email, hit send, and sat back in my chair, feeling like I’d just submitted the final paper for a class I was definitely getting an A in. The documentation was flawless. The timeline was clear. The evidence was irrefutable. I’d done everything by the book.

 Her book specifically, the one where she wrote the rules, and I just followed them to the letter. Bruce replied 5 minutes later. 5 minutes. The man was either glued to his email or had some kind of lawyer sense that tingled whenever someone sent him something good. His response was two words: outstanding. Do absolutely nothing else. I didn’t need to be told twice. I closed my laptop, finished my coffee, and spent the rest of the evening doing exactly nothing related to my divorce.

 I watched TV, a documentary about deep sea creatures that was weirdly calming because at least those fish had their lives figured out. I made dinner. Pasta with Jared’s sauce because I wasn’t trying to be Gordon Ramsay, just trying to eat something that wasn’t a sandwich.

 I even did laundry, which felt weirdly therapeutic in a look at me being a functional adult kind of way. That night, I slept like a retired hitman. You know that sleep where you’re out before your head fully hits the pillow and you don’t wake up once until your alarm goes off? That kind of sleep. The kind of sleep you can only get when you know deep in your bones that you did everything right and the other person has absolutely no ammunition left to use against you.

 No guilt, no second guessing, no lying awake wondering if you overreacted. Just pure, uninterrupted, blissfully dreamless sleep. When I woke up Wednesday morning, I checked my phone out of habit. No missed calls from Lauren. She’d apparently given up after the first attempt, which was shocking because that woman had the persistence of a telemarketer with a quot to hit.

 No emails from Richard Shun. No text from Sarah. Not that I expected any since she’d made it very clear we were doing this through lawyers. Just my regular morning notifications, weather forecast, a reminder about a dentist appointment next week, and a news alert about something happening in Congress that I definitely didn’t have the energy to read about.

 I got up, made coffee, and stood in my kitchen looking out the window at a perfectly ordinary Wednesday morning. Birds were chirping, the sun was coming up. The neighbor across the street was walking his dog like he did every morning at exactly 7:15. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. And for the first time

 since Monday morning at 8:12 a.m., I felt something that wasn’t shock or strategic planning or caffeinated determination. I felt free. Wednesday morning started with the kind of peace I’d forgotten existed. No divorce texts, no screaming phone calls from in-laws, no emergency legal emails accusing me of crimes against basic human decency. Just me, my coffee, and the sports section of the news app that I scrolled through while eating toast like a completely normal person living a completely normal life. I was almost starting to believe that maybe the worst was over.

 Maybe Sarah and her lawyer had looked at the evidence, realized they had absolutely no leg to stand on, and decided to just move forward with a quiet, dignified divorce where we split everything 50/50, and never spoke to each other again, except maybe awkward nods at mutual friends weddings 10 years from now. Yeah, that fantasy lasted until about 10:47 a.m.

 I was at work, actual work, in the office, because I decided that sitting at home was starting to make me feel like a hermit who’d forgotten how to interact with humans when my phone buzzed with a text from Bruce. Call me when you have a minute. Her lawyer reached out again. It’s creative. Creative.

 When a lawyer uses the word creative to describe the opposition strategy, it’s never good. It’s like when a doctor says your test results are interesting or when a mechanic says your car is making a unique sound. I excused myself from a meeting about marketing strategies that I wasn’t paying attention to anyway.

 Sorry Janet, your ideas about increasing social media engagement are fine, but my marriage is currently imploding and stepped into an empty conference room to call Bruce back. Mark Bruce answered on the first ring and I could hear the barely contained amusement in his voice. So, Richard Chin called me this morning. Apparently, your wife is now claiming she has no groceries, no gas money, no internet access, and is basically being financially trapped in her apartment like some kind of prisoner.

 I blinked, stared at the wall of the conference room where someone had left a motivational poster that said, “Teamwork makes the dream work in aggressive cursive. No groceries. No groceries.” She told her lawyer she can’t even afford basic necessities and that you’ve cut her off completely, leaving her destitute and unable to survive.

 Bruce paused and I could practically hear him grinning through the phone, which would be a compelling argument if it were remotely true. But it’s not true, I said slowly, my brain already connecting the dots because I literally scheduled a grocery delivery to her place on Monday afternoon.

 $200 worth of food, all her favorites, organic everything, because god forbid she eat regular peasant vegetables like the rest of us. I know, Bruce said. And now he was definitely laughing. Because you’re meticulous and you keep receipts like you’re preparing for an audit by the IRS and the FBI simultaneously.

 Do you happen to have confirmation of that delivery? I have a screenshot of the order, the delivery confirmation with a timestamp and probably a photo of the bags on her doorstep because the delivery service sends those now. I was already pulling up my email on my phone, scrolling through to find the receipt. She’s lying. She’s straight up lying to her lawyer. Oh, I know she’s lying.

 But here’s the fun part. Her lawyer doesn’t know she’s lying. He called me all righteous indignation, talking about how his client is suffering and we need to remedy this immediately or they’ll be filing an emergency motion for temporary support. Bruce sounded like he was having the time of his life.

 So, I’m going to email him the delivery confirmation with the timestamp and the itemized list showing sparkling water, avocados, that fancy cheese that costs like $20 a pound, and everything else you ordered. I found the email and forwarded it to Bruce immediately. Sent. She’s going to look ridiculous.

 She already looks ridiculous, but now she’s going to look like a liar, which is much worse in front of a judge. Bruce was quiet for a second, probably reviewing the receipt I just sent. Mark, you ordered her groceries before she even complained about not having groceries. You’re either psychic or you’re the most prepared divorcing spouse I’ve ever had. I’m not psychic. I just know Sarah.

 She’s great at creating problems that don’t exist so she can be the victim of them. I walked over to the window of the conference room. Looking out at the parking lot where people were living their normal lives, going to lunch, checking their phones, completely unaware that somewhere in this building, a guy was fighting a grocery war with his soon-to-be ex-wife.

 Bruce said he’d handle it and hung up, leaving me standing there with my phone in my hand and a growing sense of bewilderment at how absurd this entire situation had become. We weren’t fighting over custody of kids or a family business or some priceless heirlm. We were fighting over whether or not she had access to organic kale. This was my life now.

 This was what my marriage had devolved into. I went back to my desk, tried to focus on actual work, and failed miserably because my brain was now stuck on the image of Richard Chin opening Bruce’s email and realizing his client had just made him look like an idiot. About an hour later, Bruce forwarded me the email chain, and it was absolutely glorious.

He’d sent the grocery receipt with a subject line that just said re client necessities and included a polite message that basically amounted to, as you can see from the attached documentation, my client proactively arranged for groceries to be delivered to your client’s residence, including organic produce, sparkling water, and various other items

 she regularly purchases. The delivery was completed on Monday at 3:47 p.m. as confirmed by the attached photo of the bags at her doorstep. Please let me know if you need any additional documentation regarding my client’s continued support of basic necessities. The photo. Oh man, the photo. There was Sarah’s doorstep clear as day with four reusable shopping bags filled with food sitting right there in front of her door.

 You could even see the organic bananas poking out of one bag. Bruce had really gone for the kill with that one. Richard Chin’s response came 2 hours later and it was about three paragraphs shorter than his previous emails. Thank you for the clarification. We’ll review this with our client and follow up as needed. Translation: My client lied to me and now I look stupid and I’m going to have a very uncomfortable conversation with her about what no groceries actually means. I saved that email in a folder I’d created called evidence because I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be

the last time Sarah decided that reality was optional and drama was mandatory. Then I did something that felt weirdly petty and satisfying. I ordered her another grocery delivery. Same store, same organic everything.

 Another 200 bucks worth of food because if she was going to claim she was starving, I was going to make absolutely sure she had enough avocado toast ingredients to last through the apocalypse. Later that afternoon, Katie texted me. Katie, the mutual friend who’d somehow gotten caught in the middle of this divorce despite her best efforts to remain neutral.

 She was one of those people who wanted everyone to just get along and couldn’t understand why sometimes getting along simply wasn’t an option. Her text was short and to the point. She says, “You’re being cruel.” I stared at that message for a good 30 seconds, debating how to respond. I could ignore it. I could send a lengthy explanation of everything that had happened.

 I could forward her the entire email chain with Bruce and Richard Chun so she could see exactly how cruel I was being by ensuring my soon-to-be ex-wife had access to organic groceries and sparkling water. Instead, I went with the simplest option. I’m just following orders. She said, “Lawyer only. I’m being obedient for once.” Three dots appeared like Katie was typing a response. Then they disappeared.

 Then they appeared again, then disappeared again. I could practically see her sitting there, phone in hand, trying to figure out how to navigate this conversation without making anyone mad. Finally, she just sent back a thumbs up emoji. That was it. No commentary, no taking sides, just a thumbs up that could have meant literally anything from I understand to I give up trying to mediate this situation.

 Katie didn’t reply after that. She probably went back to her normal life where people communicated like adults and didn’t divorce text each other at 8:00 a.m. or lie about grocery access to their lawyers. I didn’t blame her for ghosting the situation. If I wasn’t living through this, I’d probably distance myself from it, too.

 Divorce brings out a weird side of people, and nobody wants to get caught in the crossfire when someone starts launching accusations about organic produce. I spent the rest of the workday actually being productive, which felt novel and strange after 3 days of legal chaos. I finished a project that had been sitting on my desk for 2 weeks.

 I organized my email inbox down to zero unread messages. I even cleaned out my desk drawer and found like six pens that had run out of ink, a bunch of old receipts because apparently I keep receipts for everything, not just divorce evidence. in a motivational stress ball someone had given me at a company retreat that said squeeze the day in faded letters.

 By the time I left the office at 5:30, I felt surprisingly normal. Like maybe I could do this. Maybe I could navigate a divorce while still maintaining my job and my sanity and my ability to order groceries like a functional human being. I drove home listening to a podcast about true crime because nothing makes your own life drama feel manageable like hearing about people who committed actual crimes instead of just marriage crimes.

 When I got home, I checked my email one more time, force of habit at this point, and saw another message from Bruce. Update: Her lawyer has gone suspiciously quiet. No more emergency motions, no more desperate phone calls. I think the grocery incident may have convinced them to take a different approach. Good work keeping documentation. Good work keeping documentation. That was my life now.

Getting praised by my lawyer for being organized enough to prove I’d purchased organic groceries. I should put that on my resume. Skilled at maintaining detailed records of produce purchases during marital dissolution. I made dinner chicken and rice.

 Nothing fancy, just something that required me to actually cook and think about measurements and timing instead of dwelling on the absurdity of my current situation. While I ate, I thought about Sarah sitting in her apartment surrounded by the groceries I’d ordered, probably crafting her next complaint to her lawyer.

 No internet access maybe, or no streaming services, or the apartment was too cold because I’d somehow remotely controlled the thermostat through sheer spite. The thing was, I didn’t feel cruel. I didn’t feel vindictive. I just felt done like I’d been playing a game where someone kept changing the rules every 5 minutes and I’d finally just stopped playing altogether. She wanted a divorce. Great.

Here’s your divorce with a side of organic groceries and documented delivery confirmations. She wanted to complain about being financially trapped. Cool. Here’s $200 of food showing up at your door twice a week whether you like it or not. I finished my dinner, washed the dishes, and sat down on my couch with a beer.

 Just one, because I wasn’t trying to develop a drinking problem on top of a divorce problem, and thought about how much quieter my house was now. Not sad, quiet, just quiet, peaceful, even. No one asking me why I was watching this show or whether I’d remembered to do some chore I’d definitely forgotten about or commenting on how I was sitting wrong on my own couch.

 just me, my beer, and the satisfaction of knowing that somewhere across town, Richard Chun was probably having a very awkward conversation with his client about the importance of telling your lawyer the truth, especially when the other side has receipts. Literally Thursday morning, 10:42 a.m. I was in the middle of a team’s meeting with people from three different departments talking about synergy and paradigm shifts and other corporate buzzwords that don’t actually mean anything but make everyone feel productive. My camera was on. I was

nodding at appropriate intervals. And I perfected the art of looking engaged while mentally being somewhere else entirely. Specifically wondering if I should get Tai food or pizza for lunch. That’s when my phone sitting face down on my desk just out of frame started buzzing with that persistent vibration that meant someone was calling me and they really wanted to talk. I glanced down and saw Bruce’s name.

 Bruce didn’t call unless it was important or entertaining. And at this point in my divorce journey, those two things had become basically the same. I did that thing where you pretend your Wi-Fi is cutting out, made an apologetic face at my webcam, and said, “Sorry guys, I’m losing connection.

 I’ll catch up via email before immediately closing the laptop and answering my phone. Please tell me this is good news, I said, skipping the pleasantries because Bruce and I were past that point now. We’d entered that phase of our professional relationship where we could just get straight to it. Oh, it’s better than good news, Bruce said. And I could hear him trying not to laugh. I’m forwarding you a voicemail right now. Put me on speaker and listen to it.

 I did what he asked, putting my phone on speaker and waiting while he sent the file. A few seconds later, it came through and I pressed play. What I heard was Richard Chin’s voice, except instead of the confident, slightly condescending tone he’d had in all his previous communications.

 He sounded like a man who’d just realized he’d walked into a surprise exam he hadn’t studied for. His voice was shaky, uncertain, like someone trying to give directions when they’re completely lost themselves. Mr. Langford, this is Richard Chun calling on behalf of Sarah Peterson. I’m uh reaching out because we need to discuss the current situation.

 My client has expressed some concerns about the ongoing financial arrangements and we feel it would be beneficial to um renegotiate some of the terms we initially proposed. If you could please have your client contact me directly or if you and I could speak directly, that would be greatly appreciated. This is somewhat urgent. Thank you.

 I listened to it twice. then a third time because it was honestly that satisfying. The man sounded like he was calling from the Titanic after it had already hit the iceberg. “He wants to renegotiate,” I said, stating the obvious, but needing to say it out loud to fully appreciate it.

 “He wants to renegotiate,” Bruce confirmed. And now he wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Mark, do you know what that means? That means they cracked. They cracked faster than microwave popcorn. We’re 4 days into this divorce and they’re already backpedaling. I sat back in my desk chair staring at the ceiling and trying to process what I was hearing for days.

It had been exactly 4 days since Sarah had sent that text message while I was brushing my teeth. And already her legal strategy, if you could even call it that, was falling apart like a house of cards in a windstorm. What happened? I mean, besides the grocery thing, which was already pretty spectacular.

 Bruce made a sound that was half laugh, half snort. What happened is reality set in. Your wife thought she could text you, “I want a divorce, cut off communication, and still have access to all the joint finances and lifestyle she’s been enjoying.” She thought you’d either beg her to come back, or just roll over and keep paying for everything while she figured out her next move.

 She did not expect divorce mode. You to also mean budget cut. you budget cut me is very efficient, I said because it was true. I’d spent years managing our finances, tracking expenses, making sure bills got paid on time. And apparently all that time I’d been training for this exact moment without even knowing it.

 So what now? Do I call him back? Do we negotiate? Absolutely not. Bruce said firmly. We do nothing. We’ve done nothing wrong. We have all the documentation and they’re the ones panicking. When the other side is spiraling, you don’t throw them a rope. You let them keep spiraling until they’re ready to have a real conversation about realistic terms. He paused and I could hear him typing something on his keyboard.

 Her lawyer now realizes that his client expected drama and got discipline instead. She wanted you to react emotionally and you reacted strategically. That’s throwing them off their entire game. I thought about that for a second. drama versus discipline. It was pretty accurate, actually.

 Sarah had always been the one who operated on feelings and impulses and grand gestures. She’d make big declarations about what she wanted or needed, and I’d spend the next week figuring out how to actually make those things happen in reality. She’d say, “I want to go to Italy.” And I’d research flights and hotels and exchange rates. She’d say, “I want to start a business.

” And I’d create a budget and a business plan. She provided the vision. I provided the logistics except this time her vision was a divorce and my logistics involved making sure I didn’t get financially destroyed in the process. So, we just wait. I asked even though I already knew the answer. We wait. We let them sweat.

 And when they come back with actual reasonable proposals instead of demands for $6,000 a month in temporary support, then we’ll talk. Bruce sounded like a chess player who’ just put his opponent in check and was waiting to see how they try to get out of it. In the meantime, keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Don’t contact her. Don’t respond to her family. Don’t engage with the drama. You’re winning by being boring, Mark. Keep being boring.

Winning by being boring. That should have been depressing, but somehow it wasn’t. It was actually kind of perfect. I’d spent years trying to be interesting enough, fun enough, spontaneous enough for Sarah. Meanwhile, boring, predictable, organized me was apparently the version that was most effective at navigating a divorce. Go figure.

 After I hung up with Bruce, I sat at my desk for a few minutes, just processing everything. The voicemail played again in my head. Richard Chin’s shaky voice asking to renegotiate the uncertainty, the barely concealed panic. Four days ago, they’d come out swinging with accusations of financial abuse and emergency motions and demands for thousands of dollars a month. Now, they were calling and asking to talk.

 The shift was dramatic, and it was entirely because Sarah hadn’t thought I’d actually go through with it. She’d thought the divorce text was a power move, something that would make me scramble and beg and promise to change. Instead, I’d responded with understood in a series of strategic financial decisions that had apparently never occurred to her as a possibility. I opened my laptop and sent Bruce a quick email. Heard the voicemail. Hilarious.

Let me know when they’re ready to be realistic. In the meantime, I’ll be over here being boring and organized. Then I actually went back to work because unlike some people, I had a job to do and responsibilities to handle and a life that didn’t revolve around creating problems just to see how other people would react.

 That night, I celebrated, not in a big way. I wasn’t popping champagne or throwing a party or doing anything that would end up on social media where Sarah’s spy network of friends could screenshot it and send it to her as evidence of my cruelty. I just made myself a steak. A good one, too.

 Not the cheap grocery store kind, but an actual nice ribeye from the butcher counter that I seasoned properly and cooked to perfect medium rare. I made mashed potatoes from scratch, not the instant kind. I steamed some vegetables because I’m a functioning adult who understands the food pyramid. And then I sat down at my dining room table alone and enjoyed every single bite.

 While I ate, I put on Netflix. Not anything Sarah would have wanted to watch. No reality shows about people finding love on tropical islands or home renovation programs where couples argue about shiplap. I watched a documentary about space exploration, something I actually found interesting and I didn’t have to explain to anyone why I thought Mars rovers were cool or defend my choice of entertainment. The piece was so profound I almost felt guilty about it.

 Almost, but not quite. After dinner, I cleaned up my dishes, wiped down the kitchen counters, and made myself a cup of coffee because I’m one of those weirdos who drinks coffee at night, and somehow still sleeps fine. I took my coffee to the living room, sat on the couch, and realized something that would have seemed impossible 4 days ago.

 I was happy. Not in a jumping up and down, shouting from the rooftops kind of way, but in a quiet, settled, this is actually okay kind of way. The apartment was quiet. Nobody was asking me questions or starting conversations during the good parts of shows or commenting on how I was sitting wrong on furniture I’d paid for.

 It was just peaceful. My phone buzzed with a text from my buddy Mike, the one who’d recommended Bruce in the first place. How’s it going with the divorce? You holding up okay? I typed back her lawyer just called mine asking to renegotiate for days in and they’re already backing down. Bruce says they’re panicking. Mike’s response came immediately. Haha.

Told you Bruce was worth every penny. You doing the thing where you stay calm and organized. Yeah, apparently I’m winning by being boring. That’s the best way to win. Let me know if you need anything. Also, drinks this weekend if you’re free. I told him I’d let him know and set my phone down, smiling at the idea of Mike’s reaction to all of this.

He’d been through his own divorce horror story, complete with a wife who tried to claim their dog as a dependent on her taxes and a custody battle over a time share in Florida that neither of them even liked. Compared to that, my situation was relatively tame.

 No kids, no pets, no time shares, just two people who’d apparently forgotten how to like each other, and one of them had decided to end it via text message like we were teenagers breaking up after prom. I finished my coffee, rinsed the mug, and stood in my kitchen looking around at a space that was starting to feel more like mine and less like ours.

 The coffee maker Sarah had insisted we needed, even though the old one worked fine. The cabinet full of mugs from various vacations and gift shops. The refrigerator covered in magnets that said things like live, laugh, love, and good vibes only. I walked over and started removing magnets one by one, dropping them into a drawer. If Sarah wanted them later, she could have them.

But I was done living in a space that looked like it had been decorated by a Pinterest board having an identity crisis. That night, I went to bed at a reasonable hour, set my alarm like a responsible adult, and thought about Richard Chin’s voicemail one more time.

 The shakiness in his voice, the uncertainty, the barely concealed, “Oh crap, what do we do now?” energy. They’d expected me to fall apart and instead I just handled it like an adult, like someone who understood that when someone tells you they want a divorce, you don’t argue or beg or try to change their mind. You say, “Understood.” You protect yourself and you move forward.

 I pulled up my phone one last time before going to sleep and saw that Bruce had sent me another text. Sleep well. Tomorrow we do absolutely nothing. Which is somehow the most powerful move we can make. I smiled, set my phone on the nightstand, and closed my eyes.

 Somewhere across town, Sarah and Richard Chun were probably having frantic conversations about strategy and next moves and how to handle the fact that I wasn’t playing by their script. Meanwhile, I was here in my quiet apartment, sleeping like someone who just won the opening round of a fight he didn’t even want to be in. Winning by being boring. I could live with that.

 Two weeks later, I found myself sitting in a courtroom that looked exactly like every courtroom you’ve ever seen on TV, except smaller and way less dramatic. No jury box full of citizens doing their civic duty. No gallery packed with reporters scribbling notes. Just a handful of people waiting for their own legal proceedings. A baiff who looked like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

 and me in a suit I’d bought specifically for this occasion because Bruce had told me, “Dress like you’re going to a job interview for a position you actually want.” So, there I was, navy suit, blue tie, looking like someone who had their life together, even though internally I was running through a mental checklist of everything that could possibly go wrong.

 Bruce sat next to me, looking completely relaxed in that way that lawyers do when they know they’re holding all the good cards. He had his briefcase open on the table in front of us, papers organized into color-coded folders because apparently I wasn’t the only one who found comfort in excessive organization.

 He’d spent the last 2 weeks preparing for this hearing like he was prepping for a murder trial instead of a temporary support motion. And I provided him with enough documentation to build a fort. bank statements, expense reports, text messages, grocery receipts, cancellation confirmations, everything was there, timestamped and categorized and ready to be deployed like legal ammunition. At exactly 2:47 p.m.

, the door on the opposite side of the courtroom opened, and Sarah walked in with Richard Chun trailing behind her, looking significantly less confident than he’d sounded in those early emails. But Sarah, oh man, Sarah had dressed for this hearing like she was attending a funeral for our marriage and wanted everyone to know she was the grieving widow. Black dress that probably cost more than my suit.

 Oversized sunglasses even though we were indoors and there was literally no sun to block. And this tragic sigh she let out as she sat down. That was so performative. I half expected someone to yell cut and reset the scene for another take. She looked over at me exactly once. I didn’t look back. Bruce had been very clear about courtroom etiquette. Don’t engage.

 Don’t react. Don’t give them anything they can use. You’re Switzerland, neutral, and financially stable. So, I kept my eyes forward, hands folded on the table in front of me, doing my best impression of someone who was completely unbothered by the entire situation, which honestly wasn’t that hard because at this point, I was more curious than emotional. I wanted to see how this was going to play out.

 I wanted to watch reality crash into Sarah’s version of events like a freight train hitting a car stuck on the tracks. The judge walked in, Judge Patricia Morrison, according to the name plate on her bench, and everyone stood up in that automatic way you do in courtrooms.

 And when the principal walks into the classroom, she was probably in her late 50s, gray hair pulled back in a professional bond, reading glasses perched on her nose. and this expression that suggested she’d seen every ridiculous thing humanity had to offer and was thoroughly unimpressed by all of it. She sat down, we sat down, and she immediately started flipping through the paperwork in front of her with the speed of someone who’d read thousands of these filings and could spot the nonsense from a mile away. “All right,” Judge Morrison said without looking up.

 “This is a motion for temporary spousal support in the matter of Peterson versus Peterson.” “Mr. Chun, you’re representing the petitioner. Mr. Langford, you’re representing the respondent. Mr. Chun, you filed this motion. Let’s hear it. Richard Chin stood up, adjusted his tie in that nervous way people do when they’re about to say something they’re not entirely confident about, and launched into his argument.

 Your honor, my client has been left in a position of severe financial hardship following the respondent’s unilateral decision to freeze all joint accounts and cancel shared expenses without warning. She currently has no access to funds, no means of supporting herself, and is unable to maintain the standard of living she enjoyed during the marriage.

 We’re requesting temporary support in the amount of $6,000 per month until the divorce is finalized. $6,000. I kept my face neutral, but internally I was doing math. $6,000 a month was $72,000 a year, which was more than a lot of people made at their actual jobs. For someone who allegedly couldn’t afford groceries and had no means of supporting herself, that seemed like a pretty specific and aggressive number.

 Judge Morrison looked up from her papers, peering at Richard Chin over her reading glasses in a way that immediately made him look like he regretted every choice that had led him to this moment. Mr. Chan, it says here that the respondent has continued to provide for basic necessities, including food and utilities.

 Is that accurate? Well, your honor, there was one grocery delivery, but two, Bruce said calmly, not even standing up. two grocery deliveries, your honor, totaling approximately $400 in organic produce, protein, and essentials, both delivered directly to the petitioner’s residence with photographic confirmation. Judge Morrison made a note on her papers. All right, two grocery deliveries. What else, Mr.

 Chun? Richard Chin shuffled through his papers, and I could see him trying to find solid ground to stand on. Your honor, my client has no access to the joint credit cards, no ability to make purchases, and no means of because she requested all communication go through attorneys.” Bruce interjected, still sitting down like he was commenting on the weather, as evidenced by the text message sent to my client on the morning of November 13th at 8:12 a.m., which I’ve included in our response filing. The exact wording was, “I want a divorce.” All communication

through my lawyer. My client complied with her request. I watched Judge Morrison’s face carefully, and I swear I saw the tiniest hint of a smile threatened to break through her professional exterior. She picked up another document from her stack, read it for about 10 seconds, and then looked directly at Richard Chun.

 So, let me make sure I understand this correctly. Your client sent a text message demanding a divorce and insisting on communication only through legal counsel. The respondent complied with that request and protected marital assets pending the divorce proceedings. And now your client is upset that the respondent followed her instructions.

The courtroom was so quiet you could hear the clock on the wall ticking. Richard Chin opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally managed to say, “Your honor, my client was in emotional distress when she sent that message. She didn’t intend for what she intended is irrelevant to what she communicated, Mr. Sean Judge Morrison set down her papers and looked at Sarah directly. Mrs.

 Peterson, did you or did you not send a text message to your husband requesting a divorce and demanding all communication go through attorneys? Sarah stood up slowly, removing her oversized sunglasses in what I’m sure she thought was a dramatic reveal of her tear stained face, except her makeup was perfect, and there was no evidence she’d been crying at all.

 Yes, your honor, but I was emotional. I didn’t mean. I’m going to stop you right there, Judge Morrison said, holding up one hand. Intent and emotional state don’t change the content of written communication. You sent explicit instructions. Your husband followed them. That’s not financial abuse. That’s compliance.

 She looked back down at the papers in front of her, flipped through a few more pages, and I could practically see her piecing together the entire timeline in her head. Mr. Langford, what is your client proposing in terms of temporary support? Bruce stood up for the first time, and he moved like a man who’d been waiting for this exact moment.

 Your honor, given that my client has continued to provide for all basic necessities, and that the petitioner has access to her own income, she works part-time as a yoga instructor, we believe temporary support should be minimal. We’re proposing $1,500 per month, which is more than sufficient to cover any gaps in her budget while the divorce proceeds.

$1,500. Richard Chin sputtered. Your honor, that’s completely inadequate for it’s $1,500 more than she’d have if she’d actually been cut off, Mr. Chan, Judge Morrison said dryly, which according to the evidence presented, she hasn’t been. She made another note, closed the folder in front of her, and delivered what was probably the most satisfying 10 seconds of my entire life.

Motion for $6,000 per month in temporary support is denied. Temporary support is granted at $1,500 per month, effective immediately. Both parties will maintain the status quo regarding marital assets until the final divorce decree. Next case, and just like that, it was over. The gavl came down.

 actually came down just like in the movies and Judge Morrison moved on to the next filing on her docket like she hadn’t just completely demolished Sarah’s entire strategy. I sat there for a second processing what had just happened and then looked over at Bruce. He was calmly gathering his papers, organizing them back into their color-coded folders, and I swear I saw his eye twitch from holding in laughter.

 “That was surgical,” he whispered as we stood up to leave. “Clean cut,” I agreed. and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot in the middle of a courtroom. We walked out into the hallway and I could hear Sarah’s voice behind us rising in pitch as she said something to Richard Chun that I couldn’t quite make out but definitely involved the words unfair and how could you? Bruce and I kept walking, not looking back, not engaging, just moving forward like we had somewhere important to be which we did lunch.

Bruce had promised that if the hearing went well, he’d take me to this steakhouse downtown that he swore had the best ribeye in the city. She looked like she was auditioning for a role in a Lifetime movie. I said once we were safely in the elevator, away from the courtroom, and anyone who might report back to Sarah’s camp.

 The sunglasses indoors were a bold choice, Bruce said. And now he was actually laughing. I’ve seen a lot of courtroom theatrics in my career, Mark. But that was top 10, maybe top five. Did you see the judge’s face when she asked if Sarah had sent the text message? Oh, I saw it. Judge Morrison doesn’t suffer fools gladly.

And your wife just tried to argue that her own written communication shouldn’t count because she had feelings. Bruce shook his head, still smiling. That judge has probably presided over hundreds of divorce cases. She’s heard every excuse in the book. I was emotional ranks pretty low on the sympathy scale.

 We got in Bruce’s car, a Mercedes that definitely reflected his hourly rate, and drove to the steakhouse. The whole way there, I kept replaying the hearing in my head. Sarah’s dramatic entrance, Richard Chin’s increasingly desperate arguments, Judge Morrison’s completely unimpressed expressions, the moment when she’d said motion denied, and Sarah’s face had crumpled like a paper bag. It shouldn’t have felt good.

 I shouldn’t have taken satisfaction in watching my wife, soon to be ex-wife, get shut down in a courtroom, but I did. Not because I wanted her to suffer, but because for once, the truth had actually mattered more than the performance. At the steakhouse, Bruce ordered wine and we toasted to strategic victories and reasonable judges. The steak was as good as he’d promised.

 And for the first time since this whole thing started, I felt like maybe I wasn’t just surviving this divorce. I was actually navigating it successfully with my lawyer, my documentation, and my apparently boring but effective approach to conflict resolution. What happens now? I asked between bites of perfectly cooked meat that probably cost more than that grocery delivery I’d sent Sarah.

 Now we move forward with the actual divorce proceedings, asset division, final support calculations, all the fun paperwork. Bruce cut his own steak, took a bite, and nodded approvingly at his lunch choice. But after today, I don’t think they’re going to fight us on much. Richard Chun knows his client lied to him about the groceries.

 The judge knows his client tried to weaponize communication preferences. They’re not operating from a position of strength anymore. So basically, we won. We won the first battle, Bruce corrected. The war isn’t over yet. But yeah, today was a pretty decisive victory.

 I finished my steak, declined dessert because I wasn’t trying to fall into a food coma before going back to work and paid for lunch because Bruce had just saved me about $54,000 in annual support payments. When we left the restaurant and headed back toward downtown, I felt lighter somehow, like I’d been carrying something heavy and had finally set it down.

 The divorce wasn’t over, but the hardest part, the part where Sarah tried to rewrite history and paint me as the villain, had just been shut down by a judge who’d seen through the performance in approximately 3 minutes. My phone buzzed with a text from Mike. How’d court go? I typed back. Motion denied. Support capped at $1,500. Currently eating expensive steak with my lawyer. Legend. Told you Bruce was worth it. Yeah, he really was.

 After court, Lauren called again. Except this time, her voice had that fake sweetness people use when they’ve realized they back the wrong horse and need to save face. Mark, maybe we all overreacted a bit. You didn’t have to be so cold about everything, though. I wasn’t cold, Lauren.

 I was room temperature, perfect for logic. I could practically hear her teeth grinding through the phone. She mumbled something about family and moved on. probably to call Sarah and report that I was still being difficult by having boundaries. Meanwhile, Sarah had taken to social media like a moth to a flame. Vague quotes appeared on her Instagram.

 Some people only show love when they lose you. Posted at 11 p.m. with a black and white filter and a candle emoji because nothing says I’m deep and wounded like stealing quotes from Pinterest and pretending they’re profound personal revelations. I posted nothing.

 I was too busy enjoying my newfound freedom without someone monitoring my phone and asking, “Who’s texting you at 10 p.m. Like I was running a classified operation instead of getting notifications from my fantasy football league.” Even my co-workers noticed the change. Jim from the office stopped by my desk one afternoon and said, “Man, you look happier. Like genuinely happier.” “Yeah,” I replied, taking a sip of my coffee. Turns out silence is cheaper than therapy and way more effective.

 3 months later, the divorce was finalized. Assets split 60/40ths in my favor because apparently keeping receipts and not lying to your lawyer pays dividends. I kept the house, the car, and my sanity. Sarah got her new apartment and an overdraft notification that probably made her reconsider some life choices. I redecorated immediately.

 took down all the photos of us looking fake happy at various beach vacations where we’d argued about restaurant choices. Painted the bedroom a color that wasn’t soothing sage or whatever trendy nonsense Sarah had insisted on. I turned it into something brighter, cleaner of mine. Then I did something completely unexpected. I adopted a cat.

 A big orange tabby from the shelter who I named Sir Meows a lot because if you’re going to have a cat, you might as well commit to the bit. He provided less drama than my ex-wife, but the same judgmental stare, which was oddly comforting. I started jogging again, cooking actual meals again, living again. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was walking on eggshells.

 I was eating them scrambled with cheese on Sunday mornings while Sir Meows a lot judged my technique from the counter. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was peaceful. And honestly, I take peaceful over perfect any day. 6 months later, I got an email from Bruce that started with, “You’re going to enjoy this.

” and included a forwarded message that I had to read three times to fully appreciate. It was from Richard Chun to Bruce, marked, “Off thereord, professional courtesy.” The email was short, but absolutely golden. Bruce, off the record, my client recently admitted that she didn’t think your client would actually detach. She expected begging, pleading, maybe some grand gesture to win her back.

 The divorce text was meant to be a wake-up call, not an actual divorce. She’s now dealing with the reality that he took her at her word and moved on completely. Thought you should know. Also, excellent work on the documentation. I’ve never seen someone so prepared for a divorce they didn’t initiate.

 Richard, I sat there staring at my laptop screen, coffee halfway to my mouth, processing what I just read. She didn’t think I’d actually detach. The divorce text was a test, a power play, one of those manipulative relationship moves where someone threatens something extreme, hoping the other person will panic and suddenly transform into whatever idealized version they’ve been demanding.

 Except I hadn’t panicked. I just said, understood, and started making strategic decisions like a functional adult. Bruce’s response to me was even better. Begging from you, please. The only thing you’ve begged for lately was a stronger Wi-Fi signal during that team’s meeting last month. He wasn’t wrong.

 I’d had exactly one technical meltdown in the past six months, and it involved my router having an existential crisis, not my marriage ending. I replied to Bruce, tell him I appreciate the feedback. Five stars. Would divorce again? Actually, no. Once was plenty, but you get the idea.

 Bruce sent back a laughing emoji, which was the most unprofessional thing I’d ever seen him do, and somehow made the whole thing even better. We’d become friends over the course of this divorce. The kind of friendship that forms when someone helps you navigate the worst experience of your life with humor and competence, and enough documentation to build a legal fortress.

 I forwarded the email chain to Mike with the message, “You were right about Bruce. Best decision I made besides saying, “Understood.” Mike replied immediately. She thought you’d beg man. She really didn’t know you at all. Want to grab drinks this weekend and celebrate your excellent life choices. I told him yes, closed my laptop and went to feed Sir Meows a lot.

 Who was staring at me with that expression that either meant I’m hungry or I’m judging your life choices or possibly both simultaneously. The cat had become an excellent listener, mostly because he couldn’t talk back and offer unsolicited advice. People still ask me about the divorce.

 Not in that nosy, gossipy way where they’re fishing for drama to share at book club or happy hour. More in that genuinely curious way where they’re trying to understand how someone goes from divorce texted at 8:12 a.m. to actually legitimately happy 6 months later. The question usually comes in some variation of, “Do you miss her?” or do you ever think about getting back together? Or my personal favorite? Don’t you feel bad about how it all went down? My answer is always the same and I’ve perfected the delivery to the point where I don’t even have to think about it anymore. Sure, I miss her. Like, I miss Dialup Internet. The comparison is

perfect because it’s true on multiple levels. Do I technically remember Dialup Internet? Yes. Was it part of my life at one point? Absolutely. Would I ever under any circumstances want to go back to that screeching modem sound and waiting 17 minutes for a single image to load? Absolutely not.

 That’s exactly how I feel about my marriage. It existed. It was fine for a while. Or at least I thought it was fine. But now that I’ve experienced the high-speed connection of living alone with my cat and my blue walls and zero drama, there’s no universe in which I downgrade back to that old system.

 The truth is Sarah wanted to make it legal, so I made it logistical. She wanted the divorce to be this big emotional event where I’d fight for her or beg her to reconsider or prove that I loved her enough to transform into whatever fantasy version of a husband she’d created in her head. Instead, I gave her exactly what she asked for, a divorce, clean, efficient, documented, and final. She wanted control of the narrative.

 Wanted to be the one calling the shots and making the decisions. I gave her silence. The most powerful kind of control is the kind you don’t fight for. You just step back and let someone else struggle with the consequences of their own choices. She wanted a reaction.

 Tears, anger, some kind of emotional display she could point to and say, “See, this is why we’re getting divorced. He’s so dramatic.” Or, “He doesn’t even care. He’s so cold.” I gave her receipts instead. Bank statements, grocery delivery confirmations, text message screenshots with timestamps, every single piece of documentation that proved I’d done exactly what she’d asked, exactly when she’d asked for it, with no deviation and no drama. You can’t argue with receipts.

 You can try, but you’ll just end up looking ridiculous. which is exactly what happened in that courtroom when Judge Morrison looked at Sarah over those reading glasses and essentially said, “You asked for this. You got this. Motion denied.” The thing about divorce or any major life change really is that people expect you to be broken by it.

They expect the crying and the late night phone calls and the social media posts about healing and growth and finding yourself. They expect you to download dating apps and start going to therapy and join a gym and do all the things that signal you’re working on yourself in the aftermath of relationship failure.

 And maybe some people need that. Maybe some people actually are broken by divorce and need time and space and professional help to put themselves back together. But I wasn’t broken. I was just done. There’s a difference. Broken implies something that was whole and functional got damaged.

 Done implies you finished something that had run its course and you’re ready to move on to the next thing. I didn’t need to heal from my marriage. I just needed to close that chapter and start writing a new one, which is exactly what I did. New paint colors, new furniture, new cat, new routines, new appreciation for the simple pleasure of eating pizza from the box without commentary about refined carbohydrates or the importance of balanced meals. Now, when I walk out of a room, I turn off the lights.

 Not because I’m bitter or making some passive aggressive statement about our failed relationship. I turn off the lights because it’s cheaper on the electric bill and it’s the responsible thing to do and also because it’s beautifully symbolic in a way that makes me smile every single time.

 I’m not leaving the lights on for someone who’s not coming back. I’m not wasting energy on empty spaces. I’m just moving through my house, my actual house that’s actually mine, and managing it like a functional adult who understands basic home economics. Because when you’re truly done, and I mean actually done, not the dramatic, I’m so done that people say when they’re still very much emotionally invested, you don’t argue. You don’t cry.

 You don’t post vague quotes on social media about strength and betrayal and becoming the person you were meant to be. You don’t need to convince anyone of anything or prove that you’re fine or demonstrate that you’ve moved on. You just exist in your new reality with your cat and your comfortable couch and your freedom to watch whatever you want on TV without negotiation. You smile when you remember the absurdity of it all.

 The grocery wars, the courtroom theatrics, the panicked voicemail from a lawyer who realized his client had lied to him about organic produce. You take deep breaths that aren’t weighed down by anxiety or tension or the constant feeling that you’re somehow doing everything slightly wrong.

 You let the lawyers do the talking because that’s literally what you’re paying them for and they’re much better at it than you’d ever be. And you move forward, not in some grand transformative way that’ll become an inspirational story people share at divorce support groups. Just forward one day at a time, one room at a time, one light switch at a time. Done.

 dusted and delightfully petty in all the small ways that make you smile. Sir meows a lot. Meowed from his spot on the couch, probably wondering why I was standing in the kitchen staring into space instead of feeding him dinner. I turned off the kitchen light, walked into the living room, and sat down next to my judgmental orange cat, who’d seen me through the weirdest 6 months of my life without offering a single piece of unsolicited advice.

 “You hungry, buddy?” I asked. He stared at me with those unblinking cat eyes that somehow conveyed both supreme indifference and mild approval. Yeah, life was good.