The dismissive way he said janitor made my blood boil. My father, Robert, had worked multiple jobs to provide for our family after my mother passed away. He’d been a night janitor, yes, but he’d also done maintenance work, handyman services, and had always been involved in various small business ventures.
Derek had never respected my father, always treating him like he was beneath us socially.
“That’s what we’re here to clarify,” Mrs. Patterson replied calmly, though I could see her hands shaking slightly as she reached into her briefcase. “It appears there are some legal documents that were never properly processed after Mr. Robert Mitchell’s passing.”
Judge Harrison leaned forward with interest.
“What kind of documents?”
“His last will and testament, your honor. Due to some administrative oversights at the probate court, it was never officially read or executed.”
Derek laughed outright.
“This is ridiculous. We’re wasting the court’s time over some old man’s will. What could he possibly have left her? His collection of work boots?”
Candace giggled from the back row, and Derek turned to wink at her. Their public display of affection in our divorce proceedings felt like salt in an open wound. But something in Mrs. Patterson’s expression gave me hope for the first time in months. She wasn’t the type to bring up pointless legal documents just to stall proceedings. There was something in her eyes that suggested she knew something Derek didn’t.
“Your honor,” Mrs. Patterson continued, “I request that we postpone the finalization of this divorce until Mr. Mitchell’s will can be properly read and executed, as it may significantly impact the division of assets.”
Derek’s attorney jumped up.
“Objection, your honor. This is clearly a stall tactic. Mr. Mitchell passed away five years ago. Any inheritance would have been processed long ago.”
“Not necessarily,” Judge Harrison replied thoughtfully. “If there were administrative errors in the probate process, the will could still be legally valid and unexecuted. Mrs. Patterson, do you have documentation to support this claim?”
Mrs. Patterson handed a thick folder to the bailiff, who delivered it to the judge. As Judge Harrison began reviewing the documents, the courtroom fell silent except for the sound of pages turning and Derek’s increasingly agitated breathing.
I watched my husband’s confident facade begin to crack as the minutes ticked by. He kept glancing back at Candace, then at his attorney, then at the judge. For the first time since this whole process began, Derek looked uncertain.
“This is highly irregular,” Preston muttered, but his voice lacked its earlier confidence.
Judge Harrison finally looked up from the documents, her expression unreadable.
“I’m going to need time to review these materials properly. This court will recess for one week to allow for proper examination of Mr. Robert Mitchell’s estate and will.”
Derek shot to his feet.
“Your honor, this is absurd. We can’t postpone our entire divorce because of some paperwork mix-up from five years ago.”
“Mr. Thompson, I suggest you lower your voice in my courtroom,” Judge Harrison replied sternly. “And I suggest you take this week to consider that there might be more to your wife’s family than you assumed.”
As the judge’s gavel came down, declaring court adjourned, I saw something I’d never seen before in Derek’s eyes. Fear.
For eight years, he’d controlled every aspect of our relationship, always staying one step ahead, always holding all the cards. But now, for the first time, he didn’t know what was coming next.
Neither did I. But for the first time in months, I felt a spark of something I’d almost forgotten. Hope.
Six months earlier, I had been living in a completely different world. A world where I trusted my husband completely, where I believed our marriage was solid despite its rough patches, and where the biggest worry in my life was whether Derek would remember to pick up groceries on his way home from work.
It was a Tuesday evening in March when everything changed. I remember the exact date because it was the day after our eighth wedding anniversary, which Derek had forgotten entirely until I mentioned it at breakfast. He’d promised to make it up to me with a special dinner that weekend, but as usual, work had gotten in the way.
Derek’s consulting firm had been growing rapidly over the past few years. What had started as a small business advisory service had expanded into a major operation with corporate clients and government contracts. I was proud of his success, even though it meant longer hours, more travel, and less time together. I told myself it was temporary, that once he got the business fully established, we’d have the time and financial security to start the family we’d been talking about for years.
I’d been home all day working on freelance graphic design projects, trying to build up some income after Derek had suggested I quit my full-time marketing position three years earlier.
“We don’t need the stress of two demanding careers,” he’d said. “This way, you can focus on the creative work you love, and I can build something big enough for both of us.”
At the time, it had seemed romantic. My husband wanted to take care of me, to give me the freedom to pursue my passion projects. I didn’t realize then that financial independence and creative freedom were two very different things, and that losing the first would gradually erode the second.
That Tuesday evening, Derek had called around five to say he’d be working late again. His secretary, Candace, was helping him prepare for a big presentation, he explained, and they needed to get everything perfect before the client meeting the next morning.
It wasn’t unusual. Candace had been working closely with Derek for about a year, and I’d always been grateful that he had such a dedicated assistant to help manage his increasingly hectic schedule.
I’d met Candace several times at company events, and she’d seemed nice enough, though there was something about her bright smile and overly familiar way of talking about Derek that had always made me slightly uncomfortable. She was the type of woman who remembered everyone’s personal details and made a point of asking about your life in a way that felt both caring and intrusive at the same time.
“Derek talks about you constantly,” she’d told me at the Christmas party just a few months earlier. “He’s so lucky to have someone who understands his ambition. Not every woman would be supportive of a husband who works as hard as he does.”
At the time, I’d taken it as a compliment. Looking back, I realized it was probably a test to see how much I knew about exactly how many hours Derek was really working.
That Tuesday evening, I decided to surprise him. I’d spent the afternoon making his favorite lasagna, and I thought I’d drive to his office with dinner for both of them. It seemed like a nice gesture, something a supportive wife would do. Maybe Candace would appreciate the meal, too, since she was staying late to help.
Derek’s office was in a converted warehouse downtown that he’d renovated into a modern workspace. The building was usually locked after hours, but Derek had given me the security code months ago. The parking lot was nearly empty except for Derek’s BMW and a red Mercedes that I recognized as Candace’s car.
I used my key to enter through the main lobby, balancing the warm casserole dish and a bag of salad and breadsticks. The elevator to Derek’s floor seemed to take forever, and I found myself getting excited about surprising him. We’d been distant lately, both caught up in our own daily routines, and I hoped this spontaneous gesture might help us reconnect.
The elevator opened onto Derek’s floor, and I immediately noticed that most of the office lights were off. Only the glow from Derek’s corner office illuminated the otherwise dark workspace. I could hear voices coming from that direction, and I smiled, imagining Derek and Candace hunched over spreadsheets and presentation slides.
I was halfway across the main office area when I heard Derek laugh—not his polite, professional laugh, but the deep, genuine laugh he used to reserve just for me. The sound made me pause, and that’s when I heard Candace’s voice, low and intimate in a way that made my stomach clench with sudden dread.
“You’re terrible,” she was saying, but her tone was playful, flirtatious. “What if someone comes in?”
“Nobody’s coming in,” Derek replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Besides, I pay the rent on this place. I should be able to do whatever I want here.”
My hands started trembling, nearly dropping the casserole dish. I knew I should announce myself, call out that I was there, but something kept me frozen in place behind a partition wall, listening to my marriage fall apart one word at a time.
“I love when you get all possessive and powerful,” Candace purred. “It’s so different from how you are at home.”
The casual way she referenced my home, my marriage, hit me like a physical blow. This wasn’t a new development. This was an established relationship with its own inside jokes and familiar rhythms.
“Don’t talk about home,” Derek said, and for a moment I hoped he was drawing boundaries, protecting our marriage.
“You know that situation is complicated.”
