Sign the divorce papers, Margaret, or I swear I’ll drag your name through every

Richard rolled his eyes and snatched the folder like it was a grocery list. Brittany giggled, twirling those pearls. ‘What is this, your little recipe book?’ he sneered. Then he opened it. The color drained from his face so fast I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Inside were bank statements. Eighteen of them. Cayman accounts, Delaware shells, a condo in Miami under an LLC named after his mother’s maiden name. Six years of hidden transfers, totaling four point two million dollars of marital assets he’d been quietly siphoning while telling me we ‘couldn’t afford’ to renovate the kitchen. ‘Margaret, where did you—’ ‘I’m a forensic accountant, Richard. You married one. You just forgot.’ I slid a second document across the table. ‘This is from Hayes and Lockwood. They’ve been my attorneys for fourteen months. New York is an equitable distribution state, but hidden assets get redistributed at the judge’s discretion. My discretion, apparently, looks like seventy-thirty. In my favor.’ Brittany’s smile faltered. ‘Wait, seventy?’ ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ I turned to her gently, ‘you should also know the Miami condo you’ve been posting from? It’s in my name as of Tuesday. Richard signed the quitclaim himself, buried in a stack of refinance papers. He really should read what he signs.’ Richard lunged for the folder. I pulled it back. ‘Also, the country clubs you mentioned? I called them this morning. Turns out three board members are my book club. Your membership at Winged Foot was revoked at noon.’ I stood, smoothed my navy dress, and dropped two hundred dollars on the table. ‘Dinner’s on me. Consider it the last thing I’ll ever pay for on your behalf.’ I walked out into the cold Manhattan air, and for the first time in twenty-eight years, I didn’t check to see if he was following. He wasn’t. But my daughter was waiting at the curb with the car running, and she was grinning.