“You told my husband and sister I only served to pay for their lies,” I reminded her. “Was that kind?”
She couldn’t answer.
That night, my phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. I answered cautiously.
“Claire?” It was Valerie. She sounded completely broken. “I didn’t know everything.”
“What didn’t you know, Valerie? The percentage of my salary paying your rent?”
Valerie sobbed. “I didn’t know he was planning to leave you anyway.”
I sat up in bed, the air suddenly thin. “What?”
“He told me tonight,” Valerie whimpered. “He was screaming. He said he only stayed with you this long because he was waiting for his promotion next year. He wanted the higher income bracket so he wouldn’t need your assets to support me in the divorce. And now… he threw a glass against the wall. He blames me. He says I’m ruining him.”
A chilling wave of recognition hit me. He hadn’t just been cheating; he had been using my life as a waiting room until he could afford his new one.
“That is your household now, Valerie,” I said coldly. “Call the police if he breaks another glass. But do not ever call me to manage the monster you helped create.” I hung up and blocked the number.
The threat of criminal charges for the forged signature became our ultimate leverage. Derek, terrified of losing his architectural license, begged for a settlement meeting.
We met in a glass-walled conference room. He looked entirely defeated. His attorney offered a rapid repayment schedule, a disproportionate division of our assets heavily in my favor, and a written admission of financial misconduct to avoid forgery charges.
When they finished, I looked directly at Derek. “Did you ever actually love me?”
He looked relieved, thinking this was his window. “Of course I did, Claire.”
“When?” I pressed, my tone lethal. “When you held my hand in the fertility clinic while sleeping with my sister? When you forged my name? I’m just asking for a specific date, Derek.”
His face flushed a deep crimson. He had no answer.
He signed the settlement with a shaking hand. I didn’t feel triumphant. I just felt clean.
Three months later, my mother showed up unannounced at my new high-rise apartment holding a container of chicken stew. I let her in, tired of running from her ghost.
“I made your favorite,” she said, pushing it toward me.
“That’s Valerie’s favorite, Mom. Mine is chili.”
She froze. The silence stretched until she began to cry. “I don’t know how to fix this. I thought Valerie needed me more. I thought you were strong enough to handle it. I thought… Derek was going to leave you gently.”
The air left my lungs. She knew the entire plan. Her only concern was that the executioner swing the axe softly.
I picked up the soup and dropped it into the garbage can. “Get out.”
