I went into the bedroom and closed the door.
The next morning, I called Patricia before Joseph was even awake.
“I want to file,” I said when she answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Completely.”
“Then come in today. I’ll have everything ready.”
I met her at her office at ten a.m.—professional building downtown, fourteenth floor, corner office with windows overlooking the city. Everything about the space said success, competence, control.
Patricia had the papers spread out on her conference table—divorce petition, asset division based on the infidelity clause, custody arrangements (not applicable; we didn’t have kids), timeline for vacating the shared residence.
“Walk me through it one more time,” she said. “Make sure you understand what you’re signing.”
She explained each section. How the prenup protected my individual assets and his. How the infidelity clause meant he forfeited rights to anything we’d acquired jointly during the marriage. How I’d keep the apartment since my name was on the lease. How he’d take his car, his personal belongings, his individual bank accounts.
“You’re walking away clean,” Patricia said. “No alimony paid or received. No splitting of joint assets. He gets what’s his. You get what’s yours.”
I sat there with the pen in my hand, thinking about seven years of marriage— the good years when we’d been happy, the slow decay when everything started falling apart, the cruelty of that Tuesday night in the kitchen, the betrayal documented in screenshots and credit card statements.
“You can still walk away from this,” Patricia said quietly. “You don’t have to file if you’re not ready.”
I thought about Joseph’s face when he told me I disgusted him. Thought about Vanessa’s apartment where he’d been spending nights that should have been ours. Thought about the Tiffany’s receipt for jewelry I’d never seen.
I signed the papers.
Patricia nodded, gathered them efficiently.
“I’ll arrange for him to be served at his office. Public. Professional. No room for him to make a scene.”
“Thank you.”
“This will get ugly,” she warned. “He’ll fight it. They always do when money’s involved.”
“Let him fight. I have the evidence.”
“Yes, you do.”
I left her office feeling lighter than I had in months, like I’d been carrying something heavy and finally set it down.
I was at a coffee shop two hours later, meeting with a client about a website redesign, when my phone buzzed with a text from Patricia.
Done. He’s been served.
My phone started ringing thirty seconds later. Joseph’s name on the screen. I silenced it and turned back to my client.
“So we’re thinking a clean, modern aesthetic,” the client was saying. “Nothing too cluttered.”
My phone buzzed again. Another call. I ignored it.
“Minimalist navigation,” I said, pulling out my notebook. “Three main sections on the homepage. What are your priorities?”
By the time the meeting ended an hour later, Joseph had called seventeen times. I scrolled through the voicemails later while walking back to my apartment.
“Amanda, what the hell? Call me back. I don’t understand what’s happening. We need to talk. This is insane. You can’t just file for divorce without discussing it with me first…”
His voice progressed from confusion to anger to something close to desperation by the last message.
“Please just call me. We can fix this. I know we can.”
I deleted them all without responding. Instead, I sent one text.
You said you couldn’t stand looking at me. Now you don’t have to.
Then I turned off my phone and went home.
I had just walked in the door when someone started pounding on it from the outside. Loud, aggressive, impossible to ignore.
“Amanda, open the door!”
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