A month later David invited me to a company dinner because, as he put it, ‘It would look better if my wife came.’ I wore a navy dress and pearl earrings and smiled until my face hurt. The ballroom was decorated with winter greenery and tiny white lights. I shook hands with people who praised David’s leadership and asked how long we had been married. Forty years, I said. Every time, I felt like a fraud on my own behalf.
Toward the end of the evening, I slipped into the restroom and stood at the sink, trying not to cry. A woman I vaguely recognized
from David’s office stepped in beside me. Her name was Linda. She was the wife of one of his colleagues. She glanced at me in the mirror and said, very softly, ‘You do not have to answer, but are you all right?’
Something in me cracked. Not dramatically. Not with sobbing. Just enough for honesty to slip through. I said, ‘My husband has another life, and I cannot afford to leave him because I need his insurance.’ Linda went very still. Then she reached into her purse, took out a business card, and placed it on the counter between us.
‘My sister thought the same thing,’ she said. ‘Talk to this attorney before you decide you are trapped forever. Men like that count on women not asking the next question.’
I kept that card in my coat pocket for three days before I called.
The attorney’s name was Ellen Duarte. She was in her late fifties, silver-haired, brisk, and almost offensively calm. I cried through the first ten minutes of our consultation because saying the facts out loud made them sound more degrading than they had inside my head. Ellen did not flinch. When I finally stopped, she folded her hands and said, ‘First, your husband cannot simply terrify you with assumptions and call them facts. Second, we need numbers, not fear.’
She brought in a benefits specialist who walked me through the landscape I had never dared to explore. If I filed, David could be required by temporary court order to maintain my existing coverage while the case was pending. If the divorce became final, federal COBRA continuation coverage could extend the same employer plan for up to thirty-six months, and in a negotiated settlement David could be required to pay those premiums. Given my age, my health, the length of the marriage, and the years I had spent out of the workforce raising our children and supporting his career, I also had a strong claim for spousal support and a share of his retirement assets.
I stared at them, stunned. ‘So I do not have to choose between medicine and dignity?’
Ellen’s expression softened. ‘You may still have to fight for both,’ she said. ‘But no, he does not get to hold your health over your head and call that consent.’
It felt as if a wall I had mistaken for the horizon had suddenly revealed a door.
Then Ellen gave me instructions. Say little. Gather everything. Bank statements, tax returns, credit card records, retirement account balances, mortgage papers, insurance information, and any proof that marital money had been spent on the affair. She was especially interested in the expensive gifts, hotel charges, dinners, and travel. ‘People who behave shamelessly usually document themselves beautifully,’ she said.
She was right. Once I knew what I was looking for, the evidence was everywhere. I found receipts for jewelry and a designer handbag on the card we had always used for family expenses. I found hotel charges disguised as conference fees. I found restaurant bills from weekends he claimed to be golfing with old friends. I found electronic transfers from our joint account made the same week he told me we needed to cut back because of my medical expenses. By the time I finished, Ellen’s office had a thick folder documenting more than eighty thousand dollars of marital spending on his relationship with Paige.
