Perhaps William had met Rebecca recently, fallen into something selfish, and decided that destroying our family was easier than admitting he was having a crisis.
The records suggested that whatever had been happening between them—or whatever financial arrangement William had created around Rebecca—had begun far earlier than he admitted.
Years earlier.
Years during which he came home, kissed our children, asked what was for dinner, complained about difficult days at the hospital, and slept beside me as if we were still building the same life.
That hurt more than the lipstick.
But pain was not what frightened William at Vincenzo’s.
The second section of the report did.
The accountant had identified expenses that appeared to have been paid from accounts associated with the medical practice or our marital finances while benefiting Rebecca personally.
Some might have had legitimate explanations.
Others did not appear to match the purposes under which they had been recorded.
More importantly for the divorce, several accounts and transactions had not appeared accurately in the disclosures William gave me before urging me to sign.
My lawyer had been careful with her words.
“We don’t need to decide why he did it,” she had told me.
“First we establish what exists, what was disclosed, and what wasn’t.”
So that was what we did.
We did not accuse him of crimes.
We did not threaten his medical license.
We did not invent conclusions the evidence could not support.
We asked the court to stop the property agreement from being treated as final until William’s disclosures could be examined properly.
That was the stamped filing in his hand.
Rebecca finally reached across the table.
“Let me see.”
William pulled the papers away.
Her expression changed.
“Why can’t I see it?”
“Because this is between Jennifer and me.”
I watched Rebecca’s face closely.
For the first time, some of her confidence disappeared.
“You told me everything was settled,” she said.
William looked around the restaurant.
A waiter passed nearby, and he immediately lowered his voice.
“It is settled.
She’s trying to cause trouble.”
I said nothing.
He tapped the document with one finger.
“These numbers don’t mean anything.
Business expenses are complicated.
Jennifer never dealt with the practice finances.”
There it was.
The old assumption.
I never dealt with them, therefore I couldn’t understand them.
I folded my hands on the table.
“Then explaining them should be easy.”
Rebecca looked at him.
“What numbers?”
William’s irritation sharpened.
“Can we not do this here?”
“You said the divorce was finished,” she insisted.
“It will be.”
“And you said the practice was yours.”
William went still.
It was a small sentence, but I noticed it.
So did he.
I had never claimed ownership of his medical degree or the work he performed.
But a medical practice built during a marriage, supported with marital income and household sacrifices, could not simply be reduced to whatever value William chose to write on a form.
For years, I had rearranged my own life around his career.
