The credit card records arrived at my lawyer’s office on Wednesday afternoon. Lisa walked in right after I did. The charges were tied to John’s wedding venue business, which meant Emily was technically his employee. The receipts showed weekly hotel stays at an expensive boutique hotel, always matching the appointments in her work schedule.
New Year’s Eve stood out with a $1,000 hotel charge, though from what I later learned, they skipped the hotel that night entirely. John drove her straight to his McMansion so he could FaceTime his wife at midnight and defile their marital bed. What destroyed me was the $174. 61 charge at the local adult superstore about three weeks after she got the card.
I didn’t want to imagine what they bought, but the image of my wife and her affair partner wandering through a sex shop together was burned into my brain. Over time, the charges piled up—Saks Fifth Avenue, boutique clothing stores, spa treatments, gas stations, even utility bills. Emily had racked up nearly $30,000 on that card, and John paid for it all. She’d told me her business was doing well and she could cover more bills, and I’d believed her like an idiot.
Every gift she gave me, those shoes and clothes that cost hundreds, was charged to his account. She was financing a fantasy marriage with me while sleeping with him. The money wasn’t just financial deception—it was emotional manipulation. She used it to keep me off the scent, to make herself look like the ideal wife while she was cheating behind my back.
The meeting with Emily and her lawyer was scheduled for Thursday. I took a clonopin an hour beforehand on an empty stomach, and floaty me was watching the whole thing unfold from somewhere outside my body. Emily’s mom was there too, sitting beside her daughter like a loyal soldier. My lawyer started by laying out our offer: no spousal support, no claim to my father’s house, half the credit card charges reimbursed, roughly $15,000, and a signed affidavit stating that John knew Emily was married and actively encouraged the affair.
Emily’s lawyer nodded along, pretending he wasn’t surprised. Then my lawyer pulled out the folder of credit card records and placed it on the table. Emily tensed up immediately, her eyes going wide. Her mom’s head snapped toward her.
My lawyer began reading off hotel charges and dates, asking why they coincided perfectly with John’s appointments in her schedule. Emily started shaking, stammering nonsense. Her lawyer told her to be silent. My lawyer pushed the folder across the table and said they were notified now.
Then she asked about the December charges, the toy store, whether Emily bought Christmas gifts for me and her family with John’s money. Emily was sweating, breathing heavy, her face flushed. Her mom whispered, “What? ” And then my lawyer mentioned the $175 charge at the adult superstore.
Emily’s mom said, “Oh god,” and walked out of the room with her hand over her mouth. Emily started babbling, saying she could explain, it wasn’t what I thought. I sat there like an ape researcher watching monkeys fling crap at each other. My stomach was filing for divorce too.
I grabbed the small trash can and vomited into it, mostly expensive lawyer water. Emily asked if I was sick, if I was okay. I ignored her. Her lawyer hushed her and dragged her out of the room, his face the color of a tomato.
After the door shut, my lawyer grabbed Emily’s business records and told me the meeting went as expected. I pointed at the puke-filled trash can and asked if we could make that part of the offer. For the first time since I’d met her, my lawyer genuinely laughed—stomach-holding laughter. She said she’d mention it.
After the meeting, Emily tried texting me with excuses. She said early on, John sent her to the sex store as an errand to pick up a toy. She loved me, we had plans, could I forgive her? I broke silence just to tell her to direct all communication through my attorney, then blocked her number.
Her mom called me later. Their lawyer had dumped them as clients. He’d told them to find someone new and be honest with that person about everything. Emily’s mom said she’d looked at the credit card statements and asked Emily about them, but Emily just sobbed and said she didn’t want to talk about it.
Her mom asked me, “Who is this person? ” I told her Emily was still her daughter and needed help. Father-in-law was apparently shit-talking me for breaking his little girl’s heart. He didn’t know the truth yet.
His wife hadn’t told him his daughter was a sugar baby. I suggested therapy, real therapy, someone with a prescription pad, not just a Christian counselor who read from the Bible. Emily’s mom wanted to know if there was any chance of reconciliation. I told her there wasn’t.
Emily had burned that bridge to the ground and salted the earth. Sunday evening, I was reading at the Airbnb when my dad called from Florida. Emily’s old neighbors had called him, worried there was an electrical fire at the house. They saw her in the backyard burning things on the built-in grill.
I called her mom, who thought Emily was still in her room. That whole family had been avoiding each other, so nobody noticed her slip out. I drove over and called the police non-emergency line, telling them we had a small accident in the backyard and had it under control. I didn’t want Emily arrested.
She was already costing her family enough. When I got there, the smell hit me like a wall—sharp, chemical, burning plastic and fabric and something sweet underneath. She was standing at the grill, feeding her designer wardrobe into the flames: dresses, bags, lingerie, shoes, makeup. I ran inside, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and blasted the grill until it was nothing but smoke and hissing metal.
Emily just stood there, surprised to see me, like I’d appeared out of nowhere like Smokey the Bear. She was a mess—no makeup, dark circles under her eyes, hair in a messy bun with a comically giant clip, Walmart sweats. Non-designer Walmart sweats. I grabbed her arm and pulled her around to the front yard to escape the toxic fumes.
“What in the holy hell are you doing, trying to burn my house down? ” She rushed forward and hugged me. I stood there with my hands at my sides, looking away. She said she was cleaning house, getting rid of everything he touched.
She wanted to make things right. I told her domestic terrorism wasn’t going to get me into reconciliation. She asked what she could do, said she’d do anything. I told her she’d smashed our marriage into pieces and it wasn’t fair for her to expect me to fix it.
She’d sacrificed us for her business, and if she let it go belly up now, it would be a slap in my face. So she needed to go back to work. She kept apologizing between sobs, promising to do all the work necessary. I gave her non-committal answers.
“Sounds good. We’ll see. ” I was full up on crazy and didn’t have room for more. Her parents showed up.
Father-in-law had found the credit card records and confronted mother-in-law, who came clean. Now they were all avoiding each other too. Not my dumpster, not my fire. I told Emily she could start making amends by writing that affidavit for Lisa’s divorce.
She said she would. Father-in-law offered to pay for the grill and clean-up. I thought, damn right you will, but I thanked him for his generosity. A police officer showed up, looked things over, told me the grill was a goner and we needed to break up our little terrorist cell for the evening.
I hosed everything down afterward because the extinguisher chemicals were corrosive. Then I loaded up the rest of Emily’s stuff—her designer clothes, her bags, her shoes—and dumped it all in a thrift store donation box after hours. If you see a homeless woman with a Prada bag wearing a garter belt, you’re welcome. My lawyer later told me Emily’s business was doing well, turning a profit since August.
So she could afford all the psychiatric medication she needed. I didn’t expect to update so soon, but I also didn’t expect Emily to pull a poison gas attack on her old neighborhood either.
