His Fake Divorce, My Real Take

Let's get a fake divorce.

Mark placed a document on the kitchen counter in front of me.

My hand, holding the knife I was using to chop vegetables, froze mid-air.

We'll transfer the house to my mom's name for now. Once the new regulations pass, we'll remarry. His tone was casual, as if he were discussing what to have for dinner. "It's for the good of our family."

I just looked at him.

My husband of eight years, saying the word "divorce" without so much as blinking.

"I'll write up the agreement," he added. "All you have to do is sign."

I lowered my eyes to the papers.

The house: goes to the husband.

The savings: go to the husband.

Custody of our daughter: goes to the husband.

And me? I would leave with nothing.

"For the good of our family," I repeated his words, a small, tight curve forming on my lips.

"Fine."

I set the knife down.

"I'll sign it."

1.

Mark seemed taken aback by how quickly I agreed. He just stared for a second.

"You... you're okay with this?"

"You said it's for the good of our family," I said, wiping my hands on a towel. "How could I say no?"

He watched me for a few more seconds, then a slow smile spread across his face.

"I knew you were an understanding woman."

An understanding woman.

I rolled the words around in my mind.

In eight years of marriage, that was the first time he'd ever praised me like that.

"Take a look at the agreement first," he said, sliding the papers toward me. "If you have any issues, we can talk about them."

I picked up the document and read through it, page by page.

Assets:

? Property: Marital home in the Southwood district. 1,300 sq. ft., valued at approximately $850,000. To be transferred to the husband.

? Savings: Joint savings account containing 0-040,000. To be transferred to the husband.

? Vehicle: One Volkswagen Passat. To be transferred to the husband.

? Child Custody: Sole custody of our daughter awarded to the husband.

Me: Entitled to nothing.

"This part..." I pointed to the custody clause. "Our daughter stays with you?"

"My mom will help out," Mark said without a second thought. "You can't manage her on your own."

"And what about me?"

"You can visit her whenever you want," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's not like I'm banning you from seeing her."

I met his gaze and held it, saying nothing.

He shifted uncomfortably. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

I set the agreement down.

"I'll look it over. I'll give you an answer tomorrow."

"Okay." He let out a breath, visibly relieved. "No rush, anyway. The new tax laws don't kick in until next month."

The "new tax laws" were the capital gains regulations everyone was talking about. His plan was to execute a sham divorce, transfer the house to his mother to shield it as her primary residence, and then remarry me when the dust settled. It would save us a fortune in taxes.

It sounded perfectly logical.

I nodded and put the agreement away in a drawer.

"What do you want for dinner?" I asked.

"Whatever." He already had his phone in his hand. "You decide."

I turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Whatever.

That was his answer for everything lately.

Whatever for dinner, whatever clothes to wear, whatever time he came home.

Everything was "whatever."

Except for this divorce. On that, he was anything but casual. The agreement was meticulous, every clause spelled out, not a single word left to chance.

I opened the fridge, my eyes scanning the contents. After a moment, I pulled out a steak.

As I began to slice the meat, my hand was perfectly steady.

His mother showed up during dinner.

"Mark told me about the plan," she announced with a smile as she walked in. "It's the smart thing to do."

I put down my fork. "So you know about it, Mom?"

"Of course, I know." She took a seat at the table. "We transfer the house to my name, and once the policy stuff is over, we transfer it right back. No harm done."

"The agreement also says our savings and the car go to Mark."

"They'll be safer with him for now," she said, helping herself to some salad. "We're family. What's mine is yours, right?"

"And our daughter?"

"I'll help raise her," she declared, as if it were a settled fact. "You couldn't handle it by yourself."

The exact same words Mark had used.

I managed a small smile. "Mom, Mark and I have been married for eight years."

"That's right, eight years," she nodded. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

"For these eight years," I continued, "the mortgage, our daughter's tuition, the daily bills... I put every single paycheck I earned into our joint account. I never kept a cent for myself."

"Well, that's what you're supposed to do," she replied. "You earn money to support the family."

"So when we get this 'fake' divorce, I'm supposed to walk away with nothing?"

His mother blinked.

"But it's just for show!" she said, a note of exasperation in her voice. "Goodness, Evelyn, why are you being so difficult?"

Just for show.

I looked at her sincere, untroubled face.

"You're right, Mom," I nodded. "I'm making a big deal out of nothing."

She beamed, satisfied. "That's my girl. In a family, we don't nickel-and-dime each other."

Beside us, Mark scrolled through his phone, not even looking up.

I lowered my head and ate my dinner in silence.

After dinner, I went to wash the dishes. I could hear Mark and his mother talking in the living room. Their voices were low, but I caught a few words.

"...next month... transfer... no problem..."

I turned the faucet on full blast, letting the rush of water drown out their voices.

When I was done, I dried my hands and walked back into the living room.

"Mom, it's getting late. Why don't I drive you home tomorrow?"

"No, no, that's alright." She stood up. "I'll grab a cab. You two get some rest."

On her way out, she patted my hand.

"Evelyn, honey, try to be understanding. Mark is under a lot of pressure."

"I know," I said.

After she left, I went to our bedroom. Mark was already in bed, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone.

I walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer. His credit card statements were tucked away at the very back.

I pulled them out and started flipping through the last three months.

September: a charge for $320 at the Fairmont Hotel. Another for $2,150 at Tiffany & Co. A third for $585 at a high-end steakhouse.

October: Fairmont Hotel, $320. The Ritz-Carlton, $450. A single transaction for $3,700 at Nordstrom.

November: Fairmont Hotel, $320. Fairmont Hotel, $320...

The same hotel, once a week, like clockwork.

Jewelry stores, department stores, fancy restaurants.

I had never received any of these gifts.

I put the statements back and quietly closed the drawer.

"What are you looking for?" Mark's voice came from the bed.

"Just grabbing something," I said, turning around. "Let's get some sleep. We both have work tomorrow."

He grunted in response and went back to his phone.

I lay down and closed my eyes, but the numbers kept flashing behind my eyelids.

$2,150. $3,700. $320...

It's for the good of our family.

Mark's words echoed in my head.

Was it, though?

Was it for the good of our family?

Or was it for the good of his?

I opened my eyes and stared into the darkness above me.

Tomorrow, I had some investigating to do.

2.

The next morning, as soon as Mark left for work, I called in and took a half-day off.

The phone rang almost immediately. It was my mother-in-law.

"Evelyn? Why aren't you at work today?"

"I had something to take care of," I said vaguely. "Just handling it from home."

"What is it?"

"Work stuff."

She said "oh" and didn't press further.

After hanging up, I opened my laptop. First, I checked his location history. Mark and I had shared our locations since the year we got married. It was his idea, "to make it easier to find each other," he'd said.

I had never once used it to check up on him.

Today was the first time.

I pulled up his location data for the past three months. And then I froze.

Three or four times a week, nearly every week, he went to the same place.

An apartment complex on the east side of town.

It wasn't his office. It wasn't a client's address. It wasn't anywhere he had ever mentioned to me.

I zoomed in on the map and wrote down the name of the complex.

Sunnyside Gardens, Building B.

I'd never heard of it.

I picked up my phone and sent a message to my best friend, Sophia.

Soph, you there?

Here. What's up? she replied instantly.

You're a real estate agent. Can you look someone up for me?

Who?

Someone who lives at Sunnyside Gardens, Building B. I need to know whose name is on the deed.

What are you digging for, Evie?

I hesitated, then decided against telling her everything just yet.

Just help me out. Dinner's on me.

Deal. Gimme a few.

I put my phone down and went back to Mark's credit card statements, sorting every charge by date.

Hotel stays: 12 times.

Jewelry stores: 3 times.

Restaurants: 8 times.

Department stores: 5 times.

Every single one on a weekday.

And every single one had nothing to do with me.

I took out a piece of paper and started adding up the numbers.

The hotel stays came to about $4,000.

The jewelry, around $6,500.

The restaurants, nearly $4,500.

The shopping sprees, over 0-01,000.

In just three months, he had spent over $26,000.

That was more than 0-000,000 a year.

And this had been going on for how long? Three years?

The pen in my hand started to shake.

My phone rang. It was Sophia.

"Evie, I got it."

"Tell me."

"Sunnyside Gardens, Building B, apartment 1402. The owner is a Zoe Jensen. Female, 26 years old. The deed was transferred to her name this past June."

Zoe Jensen.

I wrote the name down on the paper.

"That's all the public info I can pull," Sophia said. "If you need more, you'd have to go to the county records office. Evie, seriously, what is this about?"

"Thanks, Soph. I owe you dinner," I said, and hung up.

Zoe Jensen, 26. Sunnyside Gardens, apartment 1402. Deed transferred in June.

I opened our banking app and scrolled through the transaction history for our joint account. I went back, and back, until I reached May of this year.

May 28th. A wire transfer for $80,000.

Recipient: Zoe Jensen.

Memo: Down payment on house.

The world stopped.

Eighty thousand dollars.

Almost everything we had managed to save in eight years of marriage. He had wired our entire life savings to her.

I stared at the screen, my body numb.

It's for the good of our family.

His voice was a venomous whisper in my ear.

So this was it.

This was what "for the good of our family" meant.

Give my money to another woman.

Then make me sign a document to leave with nothing.

And after that?

Marry her?

I closed the app and leaned back in my chair, forcing myself to breathe. In, out. In, out.

I didn't cry. I didn't throw anything. I didn't pick up the phone to scream at him.

I just sat there, my gaze fixed on the ceiling, as the numbers spun in my head.

$80,000. 89 location pings. $26,000 in lavish spending. 8 years of marriage.

And that "fake divorce" agreement.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

He had it all planned out.

The fake divorce, transferring the house to his momno, that was a lie. He was never going to put it in his mother's name.

It was for her, wasn't it?

The savings were his. The car was his. Our daughter was his.

And me?

I was left with the scraps. He didn't even want me to have the scraps.

At five o'clock, Mark came home from work.

"You didn't go in today?" He seemed surprised to see me.

"Took a half-day," I said. "Had some things to do."

"What things?"

"Work things."

He grunted and dropped his bag, slipping into his house shoes before collapsing onto the sofa. It was all so painfully normal.

"Did you finish reading the agreement?" he asked.

"I did."

"And?"

I walked over and sat in the armchair across from him.

"I have a question for you."

"Go ahead."

"The house. After we transfer it to your mom's name, when can we transfer it back?"

"As soon as the new regulations are clear. Six months, tops."

"Six months," I nodded. "And the savings?"

"They'll stay with me for now. But if you need anything, you can just ask."

"Just ask," I repeated, nodding again.

He seemed a little on edge. "Do you... have a problem with that?"

I looked straight at him.

"No problem at all," I said. "I just wanted to confirm."

"Confirm what?"

"Confirm that everything you're telling me is the truth."

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then broke into a grin.

"Of course, it's the truth," he said. "Why would I lie to you?"

"Right," I said, mirroring his smile. "Why would you?"

I stood up.

"I heated up dinner. You should eat."

"You're not eating?"

"Not hungry." I started toward the bedroom. "About the agreement, I just need a little more time to think."

"Fine," he said. "Take your time. There's no rush."

I closed the bedroom door behind me.

Take my time.

Yes, I would. I needed to take my time.

And think very carefully about how I was going to get back every single penny that belonged to me.

3.

The next day, I did something I never thought I would do.

I went to see a lawyer.

Sophia had recommended her. A college friend who specialized in family law.

"Tell me everything," the lawyer said. Her name was Ms. Sutton, a sharp woman in her thirties with an air of no-nonsense competence.

I laid out all my evidence on her polished desk.

The credit card statements.

Screenshots of the location history.

The wire transfer record.

The property information on Zoe's apartment.

And finally, the "fake divorce" agreement Mark had drafted.

Ms. Sutton examined each document carefully, her expression unreadable. When she finished, she looked up at me.

"Your husband is quite the operator," she said, her voice dry. "He certainly has all his ducks in a row."

"He wants me to leave with nothing."

"This agreement," Ms. Sutton tapped the paper, "did he write it himself?"

"Yes."

"Has he signed it yet?"

"He said he'd sign it after I did."

A small, knowing smile touched Ms. Sutton's lips.

"He probably has no idea," she said, "that this very document could be his undoing."

I stared at her. "What do you mean?"

Ms. Sutton flipped the agreement back to the first page.

"Look here." She pointed to a line. "Assets, Property: To be transferred to the husband."

"Right."

"But this was your marital home, purchased after you were married, correct?"

"Yes."

"Who paid the down payment?"

"His parents gave us $50,000, and we paid the other 0-050,000."

"And that 0-050,000 included your money?"

"I put in every cent of my savings."

Ms. Sutton nodded, satisfied.

"Then the house is marital property," she stated. "He has no right to dispose of it unilaterally."

"But the agreement he wants me to sign says"

"The agreement he wants you to sign," Ms. Sutton cut in, "is legally considered a postnuptial agreement."

She held up the paper.

"If both parties sign this, it becomes legally binding."

"But here's the thing," she said, that smile returning, "the agreement he wrote, which gifts all assets to himself, assumes one thing: that you have no grounds to contest it."

"And I do?"

"Oh, yes," Ms. Sutton said, her eyes glinting behind her glasses. "He made a critical error."

"What error?"

"He forgot something very important," she said, her voice sharp and clear. "He's the at-fault party."

It took me a moment to process.

"Illegally transferring $80,000 of marital assets to a third party," Ms. Sutton said, ticking off points on her fingers, "that's fault."

"Adultery, that's fault."

"Maintaining a long-term affair and cohabitating with a third party during the marriage, that's fault."

"And our state's laws are very clear. When a divorce occurs, the non-faulting party can seek damages, and the at-fault party may receive a significantly smaller share of the assets, or in some cases, none at all."

It was finally starting to click.

"So you're saying..."

"I'm saying," Ms. Sutton leaned forward, "he's trying to leave you with nothing. But in the end, the one walking away empty-handed might just be him."

I stared at the agreement on her desk.

"But I need more proof," I said. "The transfer is one thing, but it's not enough to prove everything."

"You need three categories of evidence," Ms. Sutton said, holding up three fingers. "First, proof of the affair. Second, proof of the asset transfer. Third, proof that he acted with malicious intent."

"How do I get it?"

"Proof of the affair: hotel receipts, text messages, photos," she listed. "You already have the smoking gun for the asset transfer: the $80,000 wire record."

"And the third thing?"

"That's the easiest part." Ms. Sutton's smile was predatory. "You get him to admit it himself."

"How?"

"You record him."

I fell silent.

A recording.

Get him to admit, in his own words, to the affair and the transfer of money. Then use his own voice against him in a court of law.

"Are you willing to do it?" Ms. Sutton asked.

I thought of him lying in bed, scrolling on his phone without a care in the world. I thought of his mother, telling me it was all for the good of the family.

I thought of those four words on his agreement: Entitled to nothing.

"I am," I said.

"Then let's make a plan." Ms. Sutton pulled out a notepad. "Step one: you continue to play along with his fake divorce."

"What?"

"Don't let him suspect you know the truth," she explained. "The more secure he feels, the more likely he is to slip up."

"Step two: gather your evidence. Bank records, chat logs, and that recording. The more, the better."

"Step three: when he pressures you to sign the agreement, you sign it."

I was stunned. "Sign it?"

"Yes," Ms. Sutton confirmed with a firm nod. "Sign it."

"But that agreement gives him everything"

"That agreement was written by him," Ms. Sutton said, her eyes practically shining. "An agreement he wrote and he signed becomes a legally recognized document."

"You sign it, he signs it, and the agreement is official."

"And then?"

"And then," she said, "you take that signed agreement, along with all your evidence, and you file for divorce in court."

"Think about what the judge will see," she said, her words precise and deliberate. "A cheating husband who transferred $80,000 of marital assets to his mistress, then drafted an agreement to strip his wife of everything she's entitled to."

"In that scenario, how do you think a judge will rule?"

I finally understood.

"The agreement he wrote," I whispered, "becomes his own death warrant."

"Exactly," Ms. Sutton grinned. "He's selling himself down the river, and he thinks you're the one holding the paddle."

On the way home, my mother-in-law called.

"Evelyn, have you made up your mind about the agreement?"

"I have," I said.

"You'll sign?"

"I'll sign."

"Wonderful!" Her voice was overflowing with relief. "I knew you were an understanding girl!"

An understanding girl.

I gripped my phone, silent.

"So, can we go handle the paperwork tomorrow?" she pressed. "I'll have Mark schedule the appointment."

"Okay," I said. "Whenever you're ready."

I hung up and stood on the sidewalk, the cool evening breeze doing nothing to calm the fire in my mind.

Tomorrow.

Fine.

Let them have their day. Their reckoning was coming.