I actually felt a small, dark spark of pity for her. She had spent so much time calculating the value of my life without ever understanding the legalities that protected it.
“Not when there’s a signed, witnessed, and filed agreement of complete separation, Beatrice,” I said, pointing a manicured nail at a specific paragraph. “It’s right here. ‘Each spouse shall maintain individual ownership of all property owned prior to the marriage AND all property acquired during the marriage.’ Every cent I put into my savings, every stock I bought, and every mortgage payment I made stays with me.”
“But this can’t be right,” David stammered, his voice rising an octave, drawing the attention of a nearby couple. “I lived there! I contributed! We were a team!”
“You chipped in three hundred dollars a month for groceries and gas, David,” I countered, my voice cutting through his protest like a blade. “I paid the eighteen-hundred-dollar mortgage. I paid the two-hundred-dollar condo fees. I paid the internet, the electricity, the insurance, and the property taxes. Your three hundred bucks for eggs and milk doesn’t buy you half of a four-hundred-thousand-dollar asset. It doesn’t give you a right to a single brick.”
Beatrice was frantically flipping through the pages now, her eyes wide as she realized the golden goose was actually a stone. “What about alimony? You make twice what he does—no, four times now with the promotion. He has a right to support. Especially now that there’s a child involved.”
I smiled, and for the first time, it was a genuine expression of satisfaction. “Page five, section three. Spousal support waiver. Both parties hereby waive any right to spousal support, alimony, or maintenance. David waived his right to a single penny of my paycheck the moment he put his pen to that paper.”
“I didn’t know what I was signing!” David shouted, slamming his hand on the table. A waiter paused a few feet away, looking concerned. “You tricked me! You set this up from the beginning!”
“I tricked you? David, we sat in Dr. Williams’s office for two hours. She offered to let you have the document reviewed by your own counsel. You said it wasn’t necessary. You said you didn’t care about the money. Were you lying then, or are you lying now?”
The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Beatrice looked at David, and for the first time, the “love” I had seen earlier was replaced by a sharp, jagged look of resentment. She hadn’t fallen in love with a car salesman; she had fallen in love with the husband of a wealthy woman, expecting to slide right into my place.
“So you’re saying he has nothing?” she whispered.
“Exactly. Zero. He leaves with his clothes, his financed pickup truck, and whatever balance is left on that credit card he uses for his bar tabs. That’s it.” I tucked the papers back into the envelope. “And David, about that child you mentioned. You should probably start doing some math.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, looking utterly broken.
“Child support,” I said. “In Texas, for one child, it’s generally twenty percent of your net income. If you’re clearing five thousand a month gross, you’re looking at maybe thirty-eight hundred net. Twenty percent of that is seven hundred and sixty dollars, every single month, until that child is eighteen. Then there’s health insurance, daycare, clothes, and school. It’s a very expensive miracle, isn’t it?”
David sank into his chair, his face buried in his hands. He looked small. He looked like the man he had always been beneath the facade I had helped him maintain.
“I’m an idiot,” he muttered. “A complete, total idiot.”
“Finally,” I said, standing up. “Something we can all agree on.”
Beatrice looked at me, tears of rage and frustration welling in her eyes. “Mari, how can you do this? We’re family. You’re rich! You have everything! How can you leave your own niece or nephew to grow up in poverty?”