I Know My Wife

I know my wife, and I know she wants something big.

Susan is dressed in her sexiest outfit, a tight red dress with a plunging neck and a short hemline. She has accessorized it with jewelry meant to accentuate her incredible natural beauty, but also meant to highlight our shared past: a brooch I gave her on our fifteenth anniversary, a necklace from her third Mother's Day, earrings I gifted her on our honeymoon. Her high heels complement long, fishnet-clad legs. She's cooked my favorite dinner, and she has waited on me hand and foot since I came through the door.

These are beyond the usual lengths she goes to when she wants something from me. I've tried to be a generous husband, but I'm not made of money. I've worked as a personal injury attorney in private practice for most of my career, and while that has allowed our family a certain level of comfort, there are still limits. This level of effort means that she is asking for something far beyond those limits.

I know my wife, and I know that what she wants is far more than we can afford.

Susan was able to stay home and raise our two children, who are now out of the house and away at college. She's been a good wife and mother; she's a wonderful cook, has tried to stay fit and trim, is generous in bed, was always first to volunteer at the kids' schools, and makes me feel loved and appreciated. Over the years, though, she has tried numerous things to alleviate the boredom of being a stay at home mom: birdwatching, makeup sales, writing, and many more.

When she has wanted to try a particularly expensive hobby, she would put the full court press on, much like she is now. When she wanted to go back to work after the kids left home, it was a far simpler affair; she knew I didn't need much convincing, since for once she'd be bringing money home instead of spending it. But it's been two years since she started working again. That's quite a bit longer than the usual amount of time it takes her to get bored with a new hobby, put it on the shelf, and start looking for something new. This was overdue.

I know my wife, and I know what she's like when she has a new obsession.

Susan serves dinner, and we talk lightly about my day as we eat. This is always part of the dance. Trying to get her to what she really wants will only ruin a nice dinner, because she thinks she has this process down to a science. She read a book on negotiation during her self-improvement phase, a hobby that lasted a blessedly short amount of time. She believes that holding to a rigid timetable and only giving information when she wants to is the key to getting what she wants. It's not a bad strategy, but she's used it so often that I can see all of her plays from a mile away.

After dinner, she cleans up and asks me to sit with her in the living room. I sit in my chair, and she stands, as usual. She wants to give an impassioned defense of whatever wild hair she's off on, so she wants the ability to range about the room. She will make her case, telling me how happy this will make her. She'll offer something in exchange: new golf clubs, promises of financial return, an indulgence of time and money for one of my pet projects. Something she feels is of commensurate value. If I accept, she will fall in my lap and ask me to take her to bed, promising sexual delights as an additional reward, usually scaling in value with whatever she's gotten. If I say no, I can expect an icy bedroom for weeks or months, and she may try to go behind my back, then ask forgiveness later. Over the years, it's been easier to simply say yes, knowing she'll get bored before sinking too much into her temporary mania.

I know my wife, and I know she's trying hard for an easy "yes."

Susan begins to talk about her work. She's enjoyed working there, but there's a new young manager that has taken particular interest in her. At first, I nod along, thinking she means that he wants to mentor her, or that she's bucking for a promotion. I know that this will mean longer hours, and I expect that she's angling to cut back on her responsibilities at home.

Then I realize she's no longer talking about her job, she's talking about the manager. He's from a wealthy family. He's handsome, well-traveled, and athletic. He has leveraged his family name and business acumen to rise through the ranks quickly at her place of work. She had trained him not long after she started, and now he's her boss. She speaks at length about him and only of positive qualities.

I know my wife, and I know what her new obsession is.

Susan tells me that they've become close. She says that she had not mentioned him previously because she rarely talked about her work at all. As she talks about him, I remember seeing him once at a Christmas party. He came over and said hello to both of us. He seemed very friendly towards her, but quickly melted back into the crowd, and I thought nothing of it.

He has been flirting with her. At first, she took it as simple office flirting, or that of a young man being cheeky with an older coworker. But it wasn't. He's had his eyes on her for some time, and he's recently told her his intentions. He goes on a personal weekend retreat to a tropical island every year, and he wants to take her. Not us. Her. She wants to go, and she wants a hall pass.

I know my wife, and I know that I'm watching the end of my marriage in slow motion.

Susan sees my face grow stony and starts in on the hard sell. She was a virgin when we married, and she wants to know what it's like to be with another man. He's a gentleman; it will be our little secret, and no one else will ever know. It'll only be this one time. She loves me, and nothing will change that. It will be an adventure for both of us. She will come home reenergized and drown me in affection. It has nothing to do with me. It's only sex. If I love her, I'll let her have this. She can tell it's not working.

She moves onto the bargaining stage. I can have my own hall pass; no, two of them; no, an unlimited one. She'll let me get that boat I had wanted. He'll buy it for me. He'll fly me out on a separate vacation with a friendly companion. He can help my career and hers. She will do anything I want sexually for the rest of our lives. She'll never deny me anything again, in the bedroom or not. She'll give me anything I want. I tell her that I want a faithful wife.

I know my wife, and I know that she is unswayed.

Susan begins to tell me that she is being faithful, because she's letting me know. She's asking permission, not simply cheating on me. She wants a hall pass because she wants to stay faithful. She wants to give me a hall pass so that we can each have new experiences while staying faithful. She's asking so that she doesn't have to cheat. I say that she doesn't have to cheat at all; she just wants to.

She gets angry. She calls me a hypocrite, because I had slept with others before her, as if our vows didn't matter. She calls me selfish, because she spent decades of her life on me and our family while I got to have a career, as if I was fortunate to work long hours at a job I didn't enjoy. She calls me old-fashioned, because I will not open our marriage, as if fidelity is simply a trend that goes in and out of style. I sit, impassive, as she vents her spleen.

I know my wife, and I know she won't let this go.

Susan finally winds down. I tell her that I can't stop her. I know that she will decide to go behind my back as she has before when a new obsession has so totally occupied her mind. I tell her that asking for permission without caring if it's granted is still cheating, and that I don't grant my permission. I tell her that if she leaves with him, she should not return. She will not be welcome. She glowers at me but says nothing.

She turns on her heel, ascends the stairs, and locks our bedroom door. My shoulders slump. I've already started to grieve, and there's nothing useful to do right now, so I'm stuck alone with my thoughts. There is no outlet for my anger and sadness yet. I go to the spare bedroom, change out of my clothes, and climb under the covers, tossing and turning for the rest of the night.

I know my wife, and I know that I won't sleep easily tonight.

Susan is gone by the time I wake. Her suitcase is gone. Her warm weather clothes are gone. Her phone is not; it lays charging on the bedside table. I will not be able to contact her, even if I wanted to. She has left me a note under it, telling me that I'll change my mind once I've had time to think. She explains that she will return Monday evening. She writes that she loves me and hopes that while she is gone I will take advantage of my hall pass, the one I told her that I did not accept and do not want. She hopes that I will reclaim her when she returns; she mistakenly thinks that she will still be a valuable treasure I wish to see returned, instead of trash I'd sooner be rid of. Her confusion is understandable. She was, until now, my greatest treasure. But not anymore.

She is on a plane, and I am here. It is Friday morning. I set an out of office message, as there is more important work to be done. I had no outlet for my emotions last night, but now I have nothing but time on my hands and rage in my heart. I call an old friend and set the legal wheels in motion. He begins to draft divorce papers. I send him a copy of our prenuptial agreement, which notably has an adultery clause, along with the details of our assets. I ask him to be fair in deference to the fact that she is the mother of my children, but not in any way generous. Given how our holdings are structured and the details of our prenup, that should be very easy.

I know my wife, and I know she's never paid much attention to legal details.

Susan kept a neat house; it was one thing she excelled at. Over the weekend, it is easy to find all of her belongings, box them up, and send them to a storage unit. I want her to understand as soon as she opens the door that this isn't her home anymore. The exertion of packing and storing her things is good. It lets me focus on something I can control. It takes most of the weekend and leaves me exhausted enough to sleep some at night. On Monday morning, I prepare for the confrontation to come.

I call our children and inform them what is about to happen. I keep the details somewhat vague, but they know that their mother has chosen to cheat on me after trying to force me to open our marriage. They're smart kids. They know me, and they know that there is no dissuading me from my course. I cry with them and tell them I love them; at least she hasn't poisoned this. I call our closest friends, and they are shocked. I call my parents, and they are supportive. I call her parents, and they are aghast.

I know my wife, and I know that no one is on her side.

Susan's plane will land soon. My friend burned the midnight oil as a favor to me and worked through the weekend. He has given me a copy of the papers in a plain but unmistakable manila envelope. I have chosen to not have her served at the airport. It is not out of any loyalty; I hope that she is embarrassed. I hope that she does feel shamed by her actions. I have made sure that the game of telephone has begun amongst our social circle, after all. Her phone, now on the entryway table, is filled with texts and voicemails condemning her.

I did not have her served at the airport, because I want to see her face when she realizes what her weekend has cost her. I am not normally a cruel man. Perhaps my soon-to-be ex-wife has mistaken my kindness for weakness. Perhaps she has seen my generosity as a lack of will. But even a kind man can be driven to cruelty. Even a generous man can put his foot down and say, "no more."

I know my wife, and I know that she will soon be far less comfortable than she is accustomed to.

Susan opens the door with a broad, relaxed smile on her face. She truly is beautiful, and I feel a brief pang of regret at what is about to happen. But then I remember that it's not about to happen; it's already happened. She betrayed our vows. She chose this. She chose him over me. She chose to throw our life together away, even as I warned her of the consequences of her actions.

Her expression freezes when she sees our living room. It takes her a moment to process what's changed. There is an absence. An absence of things, yes: the crystal vase she loved to put her birthday and anniversary flowers in, her wedding portrait, souvenirs from our travels, and many more besides. But far more painfully, there is an absence of love. Even when we had fought, even when I was angry with her, there was always love. But not now. I do not rush to greet her. There is no fondness in my manner. I do not say hello. And I am holding that unmistakable manila envelope, the one that will show her exactly how little she will have when we've gone our separate ways.

I know my wife, and I know that she is afraid.

Susan's eyes grow wide. She begins to protest, to beg, to cry. I am impassive. She recycles all of the arguments she made before she left, the ones about how it was just sex, about her love for me, about how she'll do anything for me. I am uncaring. She tries to reminisce about our marriage, our children, our shared life. I am enraged.

I rise to my feet, anger barely contained. I hiss through my teeth that I was the one that remembered those things, not her. I valued those things. She did not. I begged her not to throw them away, to not go with him, but she blithely, selfishly refused. They had been the best parts of my life, and now she was trying to use their memory as bargaining chips. I tell her that she disgusts me.

I know my wife, and I know that she finally understands that she has ended us.

Susan begins to storm about now. She tells me that I can't do this to her. That I can't take her life from her. That this is her home. That I have no right, that she supported me, that she raised our children, that... I begin to tune her out. She eventually runs out of steam, finally collapsing on the couch and crying with great, heaving sobs. I am not a cruel man, and it is time to grant her mercy with a final stroke to end her futile histrionics.

"I didn't take this from you. You threw it away. There's nothing for you here anymore. Now go."

I know my wife. Now, finally, for the first time, I think she truly knows me.