He motioned toward the living room. The entire space was staged, like a set for a somber play. He’d dimmed the lights. There were two glasses of wine already poured and sitting on the coffee table. He’d even draped a soft blanket over the arm of the sofa. He was setting the scene for a gentle, mutual uncoupling. As if he was doing me a kindness by tearing my life apart softly.
I sat down on the couch. He took the armchair opposite me, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together. He let out a deep, dramatic sigh that was so over-the-top I almost had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing. “Rachel,” he started, his voice heavy with false emotion. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About us. About… where we are. And I… I just think we’ve grown apart.”
I kept my gaze fixed on my wine glass, offering just a small, slow nod. “Okay.”
“I really don’t want this to be ugly,” he pressed on, leaning in a little closer. “I don’t want to get lawyers and courtrooms involved. I just think it’s time we were both honest and admitted that this… this marriage just isn’t working.” He delivered the lines perfectly. He sounded like he was the one being crushed by this, like the decision was ripping him to shreds.
“And, you know… with you being out of work now,” he added, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Maybe this is just… a good time. A clean break. A fresh start. For both of us.”
My stomach roiled. I let my bottom lip quiver, just a little. “Are you,” I paused, “are you saying you want a divorce?”
He nodded, a solemn mask, and then reached for his wine glass. He took a sip, like a man rewarding himself for a job well done. “Yeah. But an amicable one. A civil one. I don’t want to fight, Rachel. And I’m willing to help you get back on your feet. You’ll need to find a new place, obviously, and I want to give you some money to help you get settled.”
I tilted my head, widening my eyes just enough to look vulnerable and lost. “You’d… you’d do that?”
“Of course,” he said, placing his free hand over his heart like a saint. “I still care about you, Rachel. I just… I don’t think we’re in love anymore. We’re just not the same people we were. We’ve both changed.”
He paused, letting that sink in before delivering the next part. “And the house… you know, it’s legally mine. My father left it to me directly. But like I said, I want to be fair. I’ll offer you a settlement. Enough to cover a deposit and rent for a few months.”
I blinked, as if processing. I let out a small, shaky breath. “How… how much?”
He named a number. It was so low it was insulting, a tiny fraction of what I, personally, had poured into that home over the last decade. But I didn’t let my shock register. I didn’t laugh. I just looked at him, my expression one of quiet devastation. “I just… I thought we’d try harder,” I whispered. “I really thought we were stronger than this.”
Brian reached across the table and gave my hand a brief, awkward pat. It was the gesture of an actor who had forgotten his motivation. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I really am. But this is the best way forward for both of us. I promise.”
And in that moment, I gave him exactly what he and Linda had planned for. I nodded slowly, letting my eyes well up. I pressed my lips together as if fighting back a sob. “Okay,” I whispered. “I… I need to think about it.”
He let out his breath in a long, quiet whoosh. He was visibly relieved. He thought he’d won. He thought I was folding. But behind my “defeated” expression, behind the fake tears, my mind was already itemizing. I was building my case. He said he didn’t want lawyers, but I was already planning to hire the best one in the city.
The next morning, I was gone before Brian’s alarm even went off. He was still passed out on the couch, where he’d slept again, burrowed under a blanket like a little kid hiding from the world. I didn’t leave a note. I didn’t send a text. No polite explanation. I just left. Let him sit in the silence and wonder.
Downtown Portland was just starting to wake up as I pushed open the heavy door to an old brick building. Monica Bell’s law office was sandwiched between a flower shop and a tax prep service. The hallway had a faint, strange smell of lavender and printer ink. I sat in the tiny waiting room for what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only ten minutes, running through what I was going to say.
But when Monica herself opened the inner door and called my name, all my rehearsals went out the window. I stood up, walked into her office, sat down, and told her everything. Well, not everything. I left out the ugliest parts. I didn’t mention Claire, or the baby. I didn’t talk about the deep, personal betrayal that I couldn’t speak about without my voice breaking. But I gave her the facts. I gave her enough for a sharp lawyer to see the clear outline of the battlefield. The inherited house. The decade of co-mingled finances. The box of receipts. And the laughably small “settlement” he’d offered to make me go away quietly.
Monica listened patiently, her expression never changing. She was calm, analytical. The only thing moving was her pen, gliding across a yellow legal pad with a speed that felt practiced, almost predatory. “You’ve been married ten years,” she stated, her voice precise…
