Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN AT MY DOOR THOUGHT I WAS ALREADY DIVORCED
Mitchell’s face went completely white.
Theresa looked from him to me as if I had suddenly begun speaking another language.
“What did you say?” Mitchell asked.
I opened the front door.
Megan Price stood on the porch carrying her leather briefcase.
Beside her was the blonde woman from Patricia’s photographs.
The woman who had kissed my husband on the deck of my lake house.
The woman who had cooked inside my kitchen wearing the embroidered apron my grandmother made for me.
Up close, she looked younger than I expected.
Maybe twenty-nine.
Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and she was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a navy raincoat.
She did not look smug.
She looked terrified.
Mitchell stared at her.
“Lauren?”
So now she had a name.
Lauren Hayes.
Her eyes went immediately to him.
Then to Theresa.
Then to me.
“You told me she knew.”
Nobody moved.
I almost laughed.
Of course.
Apparently everyone in this marriage had been operating from a different script.
Megan touched my arm lightly.
“Sarah, may we come in?”
My name is Sarah Collins.
For the last several hours, I had felt like an observer inside someone else’s disaster.
Hearing Megan say my name brought me back.
“Yes.”
I stepped aside.
Lauren entered slowly.
Mitchell recovered enough to become angry.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Lauren stared at him.
“Patricia came to my apartment.”
Mitchell’s expression changed.
“The neighbor?”
“Yes.”
“She had pictures.”
I almost smiled.
Apparently Patricia had decided photographic evidence was a community service.
Lauren continued.
“She told me Sarah still lived here with you.”
Theresa stepped forward.
“This is not the place for this.”
Lauren turned toward her.
“You knew.”
Theresa froze.
“You came to my apartment.”
The room went dead silent.
I looked at my mother-in-law.
“You visited her apartment?”
Theresa’s face tightened.
“That is none of your business.”
I actually laughed.
“My husband’s girlfriend is living in an apartment paid for from our joint bank account, and you visited her there.”
Then:
“I promise you, Theresa, it is extremely my business.”
Megan spoke before voices rose.
“Everyone needs to understand something. Sarah has asked me to represent her regarding a potential marital dissolution. No one is required to remain in this room. No one should touch anyone. And no documents should be destroyed, removed, or altered.”
Mitchell looked at me.
“You actually hired her?”
“Yes.”
“You called a divorce lawyer because of photographs?”
“No.”
I pointed upstairs.
“I called a divorce lawyer because your mother threw a skillet at my head.”
Theresa scoffed.
“I threw it at the bed.”
“It hit the headboard six inches from my face.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I photographed it.”
Theresa stopped.
That green folder had taught me something important.
Memory can be argued with.
Documentation is harder.
Mitchell turned toward Lauren.
“You need to leave.”
She laughed bitterly.
“No.”
“This is my house.”
I slid the signed acknowledgment across the kitchen table.
“It is our house.”
Then:
“And we are going to stop pretending repeating ‘my’ changes the deed.”
His jaw tightened.
Lauren removed something from her bag.
A velvet jewelry box.
She placed it on the table.
Mitchell stared.
“Don’t.”
She opened it.
A diamond ring.
Large.
Very large.
My stomach dropped.
I looked at the bank statements.
There had been a $16,800 charge at a jewelry store outside Milwaukee.
I had thought bracelet.
Apparently not.
“You bought her a ring.”
Lauren looked at me.
“I thought he was divorced.”
Mitchell exploded.
“I never said divorced.”
Her eyes widened.
“You said the paperwork was waiting on Sarah’s attorney.”
He pointed at her.
“I said we were separating.”
“You said she knew about me!”
Theresa interrupted.
“That is enough.”
Lauren turned.
“No, it isn’t.”
Then she looked directly at me.
“I am sorry.”
I didn’t answer.
Not because I hated her.
Because I had no idea yet what apology could possibly mean.
Lauren continued.
“Mitchell told me you two had basically been living separate lives for more than a year.”
“We slept in the same bed Tuesday.”
Lauren closed her eyes.
Mitchell looked away.
“He said you stayed married because of the house.”
“No.”
“He said you hated Lake Geneva.”
“I chose the curtains.”
“He said the cabin would be his after the divorce.”
Theresa suddenly became very interested in the countertop.
I noticed.
“Did you know he promised her the cabin?”
Theresa said nothing.
Lauren did.
“She told me it would be better for everyone if the transition happened quietly.”
I stared.
“Transition.”
Theresa finally spoke.
“Mitchell was unhappy.”
“So you helped him cheat?”
“I helped my son.”
Those words landed harder than the skillet.
Not because they surprised me anymore.
Because Theresa genuinely believed motherhood required moral blindness.
Megan opened her notebook.
“Lauren, do you have an attorney?”
“No.”
“You should consider getting one before discussing financial documents.”
Lauren looked confused.
“Financial?”
Megan glanced at me.
I nodded.
“The apartment,” I said.
Lauren sat down.
“What about it?”
“Three thousand two hundred dollars leaves our joint account every month.”
Her face went pale.
“Mitchell told me he paid it from his consulting bonus.”
I looked at him.
“Consulting bonus?”
Mitchell said nothing.
Interesting.
Lauren reached into her bag again.
This time she produced printed emails.
“I brought everything Patricia told me might matter.”
Patricia Weller was becoming my favorite person in Wisconsin.
Lauren slid one page toward Megan.
It was an email from Mitchell.
Once the divorce is filed, I’ll move the lake place into my name. The townhouse is mostly mine anyway. Sarah only contributed some inheritance at closing, and that won’t matter after five years.
My hands became cold.
He knew about the $145,000 acknowledgment.
He had laughed when signing it.
Apparently he later decided signatures mattered only when convenient.
Another message:
Mom says Sarah won’t fight. She hates conflict. She’ll take a reasonable settlement just to be done.
I looked at Theresa.
She did not deny.
Of course.
Then another.
I need to keep the apartment quiet until after I refinance the townhouse.
Megan’s head snapped up.
“What refinance?”
I looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
Mitchell’s face changed.
There.
Fear.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
Megan leaned forward.
“Mitchell, has an application been made to refinance or obtain a home-equity loan on the marital residence?”
His voice hardened.
“This is none of Lauren’s business.”
“That was not my question.”
He stood.
“I’m done with this.”
Megan remained seated.
“You are free to leave.”
Then:
“But Sarah should immediately preserve records and confirm whether any credit applications involve jointly titled real estate.”
Mitchell looked at me.
“You’re going to destroy everything over an affair?”
I stared.
“No.”
Then I pointed toward Lauren’s ring.
“The affair destroyed the marriage.”
I touched the bank statements.
“The money is going to determine how expensive the funeral is.”
Theresa gasped.
“Don’t speak about family like that.”
I looked at her.
“Your son’s girlfriend was cooking in my grandmother’s apron while you knew where he was.”
Silence.
“You stopped being entitled to lecture me about family sometime before breakfast.”
Lauren pushed the ring toward me.
“I don’t want it.”
“It isn’t mine.”
“It came from your account.”
That was different.
Megan photographed the box without touching it.
“Keep it secure for now,” she told Lauren. “Do not sell or return it to Mitchell until counsel determines whether it is marital property or part of dissipation analysis.”
Lauren nodded.
Mitchell laughed with disbelief.
“You’re all insane.”
Maybe.
But for the first time, insanity came with paperwork.
Then Lauren pulled out one final document.
“This is why I agreed to come.”
She slid it toward Megan.
A draft mortgage application.
My address.
Our townhouse.
Requested home-equity line:
$225,000.
Borrowers:
Mitchell Collins and Sarah Collins.
I stared.
“I have never seen this.”
Megan’s expression sharpened.
“Is that your signature?”
There was a signature beneath my name.
It looked almost right.
But I knew immediately.
“No.”
Mitchell said:
“It’s a draft.”
I turned slowly.
“You signed my name on a draft?”
“It was prefilled.”
“By who?”
“The broker.”
“Then why is there a handwritten signature?”
Silence.
Lauren whispered:
“He told me the money was for renovations.”
I looked at her.
“What renovations?”
Her eyes filled.
“The cabin.”
Mitchell’s jaw tightened.
Lauren continued anyway.
“He said once the divorce was finished, we would turn the Lake Geneva property into a short-term luxury rental and spend weekends there.”
My cabin.
My grandmother’s apron.
My joint money.
My house used as potential collateral.
All feeding a future he had been constructing while asking me why dinner wasn’t ready.
Megan stood.
“This meeting ends now.”
Mitchell slammed his palm against the table.
“You don’t control my house!”
Megan looked calmly at him.
“No.”
Then she looked at me.
“But Sarah controls whether she remains in this conversation.”
I stood.
“Leave.”
Mitchell stared.
“What?”
“You and Theresa.”
Theresa laughed.
“You cannot throw me out of my son’s house.”
I picked up my phone.
“I can call the police and show them where you threw a skillet.”
Her face changed.
Finally.
Mitchell looked from her to me.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
For once, he believed my no before I had to repeat it.
Theresa collected her handbag.
Mitchell grabbed his jacket.
At the door, he turned.
“You think that little folder protects you?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“It just makes lying harder.”
They left.
Lauren stayed only long enough to give Megan copies of everything.
Before she walked out, she stopped beside me.
“I know I have no right to ask you to believe me.”
“You don’t.”
She nodded.
“But he lied.”
“Yes.”
“And I still stayed after I knew he was married.”
“Yes.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
This time I answered.
“I believe you’re sorry.”
That was not forgiveness.
But it was true.
After the door closed, Megan and I sat at the kitchen table.
The house felt enormous.
Then she tapped the mortgage application.
“Tomorrow morning we check title, credit, and every lender inquiry.”
“Can he refinance without me?”
“Not validly if your signature is required.”
“Can he forge it?”
She looked at the page.
“He can try.”
My stomach twisted.
Then my phone buzzed.
A bank alert.
UNUSUAL TRANSFER REQUEST — $84,000
From our joint savings.
Destination:
An account ending in numbers I did not recognize.
Megan looked at the screen.
“Do not approve anything.”
Another alert arrived.
SECOND TRANSFER REQUEST — $40,000
Then Mitchell texted.
If you want to play dirty, I’m protecting what’s mine.
I stared at those words.
He had walked out of the house less than ten minutes ago.
And he was already trying to move money.
The affair was no longer the only reason I needed a lawyer.
My husband had decided divorce was a race.
May you like
And he intended to reach the accounts before I reached the courthouse.
---
Related Stories
