The text arrived while I was helping a customer at my boutique: I’m leaving you and moving to Miami with my 20-year-old girlfriend. I’ve already emptied our joint account. My hands didn’t shake.
My voice didn’t waver as I helped Mrs. Peterson pick out a scarf. The only sign that my husband of years had just nuked our marriage via text was a slight tightening around my eyes.
I waited until Mrs. Peterson left before typing my response: Good luck. My name is Claire, and at 38, I had just received the most callous goodbye in history.
But while Mark was probably gloating, imagining me in tears, I was calmly locking up my boutique for the day. The signs had been there for months: the late nights at “work,” the sudden password changes on his phone, the way he’d started going to the gym religiously, trying to recapture his youth. Three months ago, I’d found a receipt for dinner for two on a night he’d claimed to be working late.
That same evening, I’d opened a separate bank account. A week later, when he mentioned wanting to combine our accounts to “simplify things,” I’d agreed cheerfully while moving my personal savings to the new account. The joint account he’d just emptied contained exactly enough to keep him from getting suspicious—about two months’ worth of regular deposits.
The rest was safely tucked away, along with detailed records of every suspicious transaction he’d made over the past year. My phone buzzed again. Don’t bother begging.
Melissa and I leave tomorrow. I’ll send for my things later. Melissa.
The new receptionist at his office. I’d met her at the company Christmas party and noticed how she touched his arm when she thought no one was looking. She was young enough to be his daughter, naive enough to think she was special.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I called my lawyer, the one I’d consulted two months ago. “It’s time,” I said simply.
“He just made his move.”
“The papers are ready,” she replied. “I’ll file them first thing tomorrow.”
Another text from Mark: I know this must be hard for you. You’re not getting any younger, after all.
At least you have your little shop to keep you busy. My “little shop.” The successful boutique I’d built from scratch, the one that generated more income than his middle-management position. I smiled, thinking of the certified letters that would greet him in Miami.
