His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 21

His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 21

Half a month later, the Chicago sun was bright in my office.

My assistant signed for an expedited FedEx package from California and handed it to me.

There were no pleasantries. Inside were several documents forwarded by my lawyer. On top was the final divorce decree, signed by a judge, declaring my marriage to Ethan Ward officially over.

Below it were the asset transfer documents. He had waived all rights, liquidated all his shares and real estate, and placed the cash into a special UCSF pediatric trust fund, named after our unborn child.

The package also contained a copy of the trust fund’s establishment certificate and a copy of Ethan’s updated Advance Directive.

I pulled it out.

In the section for “emergency contact and medical decision-making agent,” my name had been crossed out and replaced by his sister’s.

This act, more than the relinquishment of all his property, felt like a belated atonement. He had finally, legally, released me from the duty he had never truly fulfilled.

A note was tucked among the documents, written in his lawyer’s calm, restrained hand: *Ethan said he finally did the right thing.*

I stared at that line for a long time. Then I put it, along with the Advance Directive, into the back of my deepest drawer.

I didn’t care where Ethan ultimately went, whether he died or spent the rest of his life in some hospice facility. He was a cold fog from the Bay Area that had finally dissipated from my life.

Calmly, I scanned the trust fund transfer documents, packaged them, and sent them to my financial advisor.

This was what he owed me.

A debt that should have been repaid, with interest, long ago.

I picked up the black coffee on my desk and looked out at the sailboats dotting Lake Michigan. The Chicago wind blew away the last trace of gloom.