After 47 years of marriage, my husband announced he wanted a divorce and a life of freedom.
When I asked if he was serious, he smirked and said,
“Come on, Nicky. There’s nothing left between us. I want to live, be free, maybe find someone gorgeous who isn’t like you.”
Then he told me he’d booked a trip to Mexico using our joint savings.
I should have cried.
Instead, something in me went cold and sharp.
For a week, I let him think I was shattered. I didn’t answer calls. I didn’t argue. I played the abandoned wife perfectly.
But behind the scenes, I was busy.
The lawyer confirmed what John hadn’t bothered to check: he hadn’t filed yet. Every asset still had my name on it.
So I called the bank.
His resort card stopped working. His hotel charges failed. His romantic escape suddenly required cash he didn’t have.
While he panicked, I reclaimed my life.
I changed the locks. Separated the accounts. Sold a few toys he loved more than he loved me. Canceled the services that revolved around him.
Then I posted a smiling photo at dinner with Richard and wrote, “I’m starting to like my freedom.”
John came home furious, pounding on the door.
I opened it, calm as glass.
“You asked to be free,” I told him gently.
And then I closed it.
