My expression reflected despair as I left the lawyer’s office. Slumped shoulders. Eyes empty. Linear lips. The dismal sky above was thick with clouds that threatened rain all morning. The rain developed into a full deluge when I approached the stairs.
Perfect.
If anybody saw me then, they’d think, Another divorcee who lost everything.
Ad
I let them think so.
I was a different lady inside. My adrenaline pumped, eagerness bubbling like champagne on New Year’s Eve. After the elevator doors closed and I was alone, something spectacular occurred.
A chuckle. A little one. It escaped before I could stop it.
And another.
Before long, I was laughing—full-on, throw-your-head-back laughing—bouncing off the elevator walls like I was insane. If someone entered then, they would have phoned security.
I didn’t care.
Because this wasn’t everything.
The start.
Give Mike the home, vehicle, and money. Allow him to beam. Let him brag about winning. Everything was planned.
He believed he outwitted me. He was only a piece in a bigger game. As for the queen?
She was reclaiming the board.
A Few Weeks Prior…
Mike and I had been unhappy for a while. We broke up, unlike other couples who drifted.
Mike was appearance-obsessed. Status. Fame. He desired a perfect existence.
He wasn’t seeking love, pleasure, or connection. Mike wanted fancy automobiles with leather seats he never cleaned, watches that cost more than a semester of college, and dinner parties with strangers to show we “belonged.”
And I agreed. Way too long.
I realized I didn’t recognize the mirror lady anymore.
The divorce wasn’t my dread. It was fight. I knew Mike’s ego. He desired victory, not peace. That meant stealing everything.
I was unafraid. Just let him believe he won.
Mike arrived late again on Thursday night. I pretended to be unconcerned while browsing through my phone at the kitchen table.
He never said hi. He loudly dropped his keys on the counter.
“We need to talk,” he said.
Raised eyebrow. “About what?”
“I want divorce.” He spoke in a strong voice to hurt.
Waiting for the impact that never came.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
He blinks in amazement. Just that? No tears? No beseeching me to stay?
I shrugged. Why delay?
That confused him. I noticed. He craved fights. He wanted drama. He got indifference.
Nothing annoys Mike more than apathy.
Negotiations for divorce
Mike took asset division so seriously you’d think we were arranging a prisoner release.
He arrived in a suit like a businessman finishing a transaction. Smug as usual, he rattled out his requests like a menu across from me.
“The house, Mercedes, savings account, stocks, wine collection…
He glanced up for my response.
“Fine,” I responded.
My lawyer almost choked on water.
Mike blinked. “You’re just giving them to me?”
Arms folded, I reclined in my chair. “They don’t concern me.”
But the house—
“Yours.”
The car—
“Take it.”
He was ecstatic, quivering in his seat. He believed I’d lost it. He believed I was depressed and attempting to escape with dignity.
He had no clue I was dancing inside.
She left the office looking devastated after I signed the documents and gave him the pen.
Returning to the elevator. And laughter.
Because it happened.
Let Mike believe he won.
Clause-triggering phase.
Later that day, I texted mom:
Heading home to pack. You ready?”
Her reaction was instant:
Born ready.”
My mother Barbara was strong. Sharp-witted, loyal, and never forgets an insult—especially from Mike.
She never liked him. From the start, she saw through his charm. To protect me, she kept her thoughts to herself. Till it mattered.
Mike and I couldn’t afford the entire down payment when we purchased the home. Mom graciously paid the difference.
Barbara was not gullible. She had her lawyer write a contract with a quiet provision allowing her to live in the home rent-free eternally if the marriage ended.
Mike signed without reading. Too busy appreciating the space.
Packing up the home was strangely fulfilling. None of the pricey items interested me. Not the fancy plates, paintings, or premium espresso machine Mike purchased to dazzle his colleagues.
Books, clothing, and framed images of simpler times were all I brought.
By sunset, I left.
My mom?
She entered.
Morning After
My phone rang after I completed setting up my new, smaller, cozier, peaceful apartment.
Mike.
Sitting on my sofa, I placed him on speaker and drank coffee.
“You set me up!” he shouted.
“Good morning, too,” I answered cheerfully.
You mother is at my place!”
“Our house,” I corrected. “And legally, it’s her residence now.”
“You talking about what? She can’t move in!”
“Read your contracts more carefully.”
He was panting and pacing. My mother’s voice was heard in the background.
“If you’re going to stomp around, Michael, take off your shoes. Just cleaned the floors.”
A pause.
I hope you’re planning a grocery trip, too. Eat like a frat boy.”
I covered my lips to avoid laughing.
Barbara, this is my home! Mike yelled.
“Not per clause 7B. Look up. My copy can be laminated if needed.”
I could feel Mike’s ears steaming.
“I’ll sue you both!” he yelled.
“Be my guest,” I said, chuckling. You’ll do it in the guest room. Mom claimed the master.”
The line died.
In the next weeks, Mike tried everything.
He begged, threatened, and bribed. My mother was unmovable.
A neighborhood reading club, a front yard bird feeder, and Sunday lunch for neighbors were her initiatives.
She flourished.
And Mike?
Sharing his “man cave” with Barbara and her bridge group wasn’t his ideal bachelor lifestyle.
I got one final call. He was silent this time.
You planned this, right?
I grinned. “No, Mike. We planned. Me and Mom.”
He sighed. “You win.”
“It was never a competition,” I replied, with meaning. “I chose peace.”
Today, my life is changed. No huge home. No fancy automobile. Zero false dinner parties.
Peace is mine. Have purpose. I am free.
Mom sometimes sends me a picture.
She captioned her photo of her on the back terrace with iced tea last week:
You ex mowed the yard today. Finally straight.”
I laughed so hard I almost spilled coffee.
Give him the home.
Mother is home now.
And honestly?
It suits her more than him.
