The Cop and the Teacher

"Christopher!" Mom barked.

Mom was talking to my back as I walked away.

"Chris. Please. I thought we were going to Michelle and Dan's house tonight."

Pat had just finished as I slammed the front door behind me.

On Thursday, I visited my roommate from the Academy. Joe had dropped out shortly after the second week and attended law school, instead. He joined a small general law practice and enjoyed criminal law over family and real estate law, but would take on most jobs that came his way.

After reading through the prenuptial agreement, he shrugged. "This is basic, enforceable and surprisingly, agreements like this are becoming much more common."

Joe agreed with my assessment that the prenup was inherently unfair to Pat, but admitted that most are unfair to one spouse or the other. They are designed to protect family inheritance, trust funds, etc. Some are written up to protect a spouse from someone who might have shown the proclivity to cheat.

As Joe shrugged, I explained what I'd been thinking. I asked him to make some changes to the prenup itself. He agreed it would be ready on Friday at 4PM.

I arrived at my mom's house at six. I brought the ladies' favorites. I had General Tso's chicken for Pat, chicken and broccoli for Susan and Kung Po chicken for mom. I knew it was up to me to set the mood. As I walked toward the trio sitting at the dining room table, I held up two bottles of wine and sang Billy Joel's classic, "Bottle of Red ... Bottle of White."

I got what I wanted: three smiling faces. We were off to a good start.

"Why didn't you change out of your uniform?" Mom wanted to know.

As I handed out the three dinners, I told them, "I've picked up some overtime and am working an overnight shift."

"I thought we were going to the beach in the morning." Pat's smile had started to fade.

Before I could answer, Mom asked, "Where's your dinner?"

"I'm only staying a few minutes. I want to say some things."

The smiles were gone but came back quickly. Looking at Pat, I said, "I love you. I started falling in love with you the first night we met." I paused for a second before continuing, "It scares me at times. Just when I think I can't love you anymore, you look at me and smile or you say something, and my love grows. It scares me and it excites me. We're in our mid 20s. With a lot of hard work and some luck, we've got the chance to be together for the next sixty years."

I shook my head in amazement. "I can't imagine that. I can't wait to marry you and officially start our life together."

'I've got smiles and tears,' I thought to myself. 'Next step.'

I picked up a manilla folder from the table. "I talked to a lawyer friend yesterday and found out that prenuptial agreements are fairly common." Looking over at Susan, I said, "And I'm told this one is standard and not overly demanding. I've made a few small changes."

My gaze turned back to Pat, and I told her, "You and I will be required, through the agreement, to pay our bills together each month. I think it's a healthy request. I'll know what you are spending your income on. You'll know my personal bills. Together, we will know our monthly family obligations.

"As part of the bill-paying process, I'll keep a monthly and annual ledger of our family's expenses. At the end of every year, if one of us has had to cover expenses for the other, that person's equity in our home increases by that exact amount. The other spouse losses the equity. We'll start each new year with a blank slate."

"Can you give me an example?" Mom asked.

"Sure." I thought for a moment, before saying, "Let's say that we want to build a three-season porch on our house (something we'd been discussing). After the project has been completed, I discover that I can't pay the two hundred dollar a month loan and Pat pays it. At the end of December, if I'm not able to reimburse Pat twenty-four hundred dollars, her equity in the house increases by that amount, while my portion decreases."

All three nodded in understanding.

"We need a will that goes into effect the day of our wedding. All my assets will go to Pat if I die, and Pat's assets will be mine, if God forbid, she passes. Exceptions can be made if we both agree. We will have it reviewed at a minimum, every five years."

"What exceptions might you make?" Susan wanted to know.

"I wear a gold cross that belonged to my dad. If I die, I'd want one of my sisters to have it. Things like that. I've signed the prenup and it's been notarized. Read it. Have your lawyer review it. Sign it or don't sign it."

I sighed while looking between Mom and Susan. "I'm not sure if a prenuptial agreement is the best way to start our marriage, but if it's important to each of you, I'll accept it. You all need to understand with one hundred percent certainty, in the case of divorce," and I looked directly into Pat's eyes, "I can't imagine ever wanting a divorce. But in the case of divorce, this agreement screws you."

I held up my hand, as the arguments were about to start. "I've signed it because that's what you've asked. I don't want to fight about it anymore, because we're going to have a great marriage." I continued, "The revised document has spaces for your signatures," I was talking to Susan and my mother. "It requires you to acknowledge that you agree with the terms of the contract and think it is fair."

After a short pause, I continued, "I need to get one more thing off my chest." I was looking at Mom, but Susan quickly knew the comments were also directed at her. "I will not put up with you going behind my back, discussing things unilaterally with Pat and then ganging up on me."

As a cop, I could swear with the best and often resorted to swearing while on the job. I never swore at home.

"What you did with this prenup was bullshit. Bullshit!" I repeated for emphasis.

Mom blanched, while Susan asked, "How would you suggest I should have handled it?"

"You should have said, 'Chris, I have something I think is vital to my daughter's long-term wellbeing, your wellbeing and the wellbeing of your marriage. I'd consider it a personal favor if you and Pat would hear me out.'"

I suspect that all three women knew they hadn't handled the issue correctly and each face blushed a bit. I went around the table kissing each and headed off to work.

The prenup was signed. We were married and settled into my small ranch. Paul was born two years later and Joey two years after that. Joey's Irish twin, Emily, arrived ten months later. Our family was set, and Dad got snipped.

While Pat was pregnant with Joey, we had discussed buying a bigger home, and when she immediately became pregnant again, it became a priority. I sold the ranch and used the proceeds, along with almost eight years of monthly profits from three small condominiums I'd bought as an investment, to put a down payment on a four-bedroom colonial in the upscale suburb of Cheshire, Connecticut. Pat and I had almost equal commutes, in opposite directions. The house, neighborhood (filled with kids) and the town were ideal for us.

My concerns about the prenup became clearer to Pat when we moved to Cheshire. Our substantial down payment was entirely my money. At the closing, I owned almost forty-two percent of the house, and the bank owned the rest. When the twenty-year mortgage was paid off, I would own over seventy percent.

Pat and I didn't feel the need to dwell over the disparity, because it really didn't matter. My life ... our lives, were perfect.

In early July, twenty years and one week after reporting to the Police Academy, I retired as a State Police detective. I was a Captain and Commander of the Major Crimes division.

Two days after my retirement, my family and I were on a plane to Butte, Montana. We rented a monster sized RV and spent six weeks exploring the National Parks in Montana, North and South Dakota and Idaho.

We returned home two weeks before the start of school and the start of my new job, as Assistant Chief of Detectives for the Hartford Police.

Steve Nobles, the Chief of Detectives, retired two years later, and as was the plan, I was promoted into his office.

Life went on. The kids were all good students and ranged from Emily's straight A's to the boy's A/B grades. Paul and Joey excelled in sports, while Emily was in the school's choir, band and orchestra. Pat and I were busy bouncing between the kids' activities but wouldn't trade a single moment.

During Emily's junior year in college, Pat and I started having discussions about downsizing our home and finding a place along the Connecticut shore, as retirement was a couple years away for me and six years away for Pat.

We found an outdated and poorly kept single-floor house. It was part of a six-home neighborhood on an outcrop along the shoreline of the town of Stonington. We were impressed with the home's open floor plan and abundance of floor to ceiling windows looking out to the water. It was love at first sight, as we both saw incredible potential.

We sold our Cheshire home, which had appreciated incredibly. I also sold my three investment condominiums and liquidated the accounts associated with each unit. Together with a small mortgage, we closed on our fixer-upper in paradise.

During my years in the Hartford Police Department, I'd been collecting and saving a full pension from the State Police. My best friend had become "compound interest." Every month over the previous few years, I'd say a quick prayer before opening my investment statements. I couldn't believe the amount of money that a dumb cop had made. Sure, there were the normal ups and downs as the economy cooled or heated up, but I had a nice pile of money reserved. Together with Pat's pension, my two pensions, investment accounts and social security payments, we could travel, spend our winters someplace warm and spoil our grandchildren.

My first withdrawals from my State Police pension account were to fix up the house. It was a major renovation, made up of endless small projects, and I'm proud to say I did much of the work myself. As an example, I hired an electrician to swap out a grossly outdated fuse box with a modern circuit panel and run new wiring. I connected the wires to outlets, switch plates and lights. I did the same types of small, time-consuming jobs after each tradesman finished a major project.

The house never looked better than on that June Saturday when we hosted Pat's retirement party. Educators, cops, friends from Cheshire, friends from Stonington and friends of the kids paraded through the party congratulating Pat. It was a blast.

The party was not a surprise, and that allowed Pat the opportunity to prepare "joke" awards for our family and friends who had helped her most during her career. I received the last three awards. I was honored with the Chef's lifetime achievement award for making nearly 15,000 brown bag lunches for Pat, the kids and myself. I also received an honorary degree in Psychology for the hours I'd spent listening to Pat complain about her worst students and suggesting ways to break through their barriers. The Mount Everest Sherpa award was for carrying Pat's two briefcases, two backpacks filled with papers and electronics, gym bag and suitcase-sized purse to and from the car every day.

++++++++++

Present Day

"...And the new teachers, just out of school don't have a clue how to deal with students who didn't do any work during Covid. They are lost and need a mature and experienced mentor to help them. If we keep losing teachers, as we have been, the entire education system will be crippled.

"The kids themselves are a mess. They aren't learning. Hell, they can't sit at their assigned desks for more than a few minutes.

"The kids need me. The school needs me. The education system needs me."

We looked at each other for a long time before I shrugged, took a sip of bourbon, picked up my book and started reading.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Pat wanted to know.

Resting the book in my lap, I asked, "What do you want me to say?"

"I'd like to know what you're feeling."

I chuckled and answered, "You don't give a FUCK how I feel."

I used the word "fuck" daily on the job, but never said it at home. Pat's eyes got wide and her jaw dropped open.

Angerly, she asked, "How could you possibly say something that awful to me?"

"If you cared about my FUCKING feelings," I told her, "We would have had this FUCKING talk two FUCKING days ago, before your FUCKING meeting with FUCKING Steve Mitchel, when you signed the FUCKING contract."

Pat eyes were ready to pop out of her head, tears started to fall, and her lip trembled. "How dare you talk to me like that!"

I had to bite my tongue to stop from saying, "Just FUCK-OFF." Instead, I said, "And how dare you make so many unilateral decisions without any input from me."

Pat squared her shoulders and indignantly told me, "I'm a grown woman and don't need your permission."

"Is that what you really want, Pat?" I softly asked.

"It is. I need to go back to school and help steer the students and staff in a positive direction." She smiled and seemed so proud of herself. I started choking, I laughed so hard.

"What the hell is so funny?" she wanted to know.

After regaining my composure, I told her, "I'm asking if you really want to live in a marriage where you make decisions for yourself, and I make them for me?"

"That's not what I'm doing," she nearly shouted.

"The hell you aren't!" I got up quickly, walked into the house and returned a few moments later with my laptop. After firing it up, I navigated to a saved page and made a few quick changes. After fishing my credit card from my wallet and entering the needed information, I hit enter.

"The big difference between you and me is, I won't lie or cheat...".

Pat exploded. "I've never lied or cheated!"

Angerly, I countered, "You lied by omission. You admitted planning your return to the classroom and the plan didn't include my input. You're a liar. And you've cheated me out of the plans we've made together over the last four years. But I won't do the same to you. I won't lie. I won't cheat. I won't ambush you. I've just booked 'our' cruise, but I'll be going alone. I'll be away October 3^rd through the 10^th."

Pat's face turned as red as a tomato and she screeched, "You are not going on a cruise alone and that's final!"

Deciding to throw her words right back at her, I answered, "I'm a grown man and don't need your permission."

Pat's eyes were big saucers and her face remained beet red. "I want to sleep alone tonight," was all she said as she got up and left the patio.

I sat by myself for over two hours and spent the time evaluating my options. Pat had crushed me. She may not have done it maliciously, but I was crushed just the same. I knew I wasn't ready to make any hard and fast decisions. We had been actively planning our retirement since we first decided to move to the shore. A celebration cruise had been picked, but we hadn't paid for it. We had plotted out a three month get-away to Florida, starting just after the holiday season. We were going to visit the most popular areas and decide if we wanted to buy a tiny condo or rent each year in different parts of Florida.

I was overwhelmed with sadness. The only way Pat could have hurt me more is if she had had an affair, but I knew that was an impossibility. What made things worse for me was I had a suspicion that Pat knew, deep in her heart, that I would be hurt and just didn't care.

When I returned to our bedroom, I was more than a little surprised that the door was locked. I remedied that in a nano-second, just like I had years earlier, when our daughter Emily had a hissy fit and locked me out of her room. A quick forceful shoulder to the door cracked the door frame and the door opened.

Pat was lying in bed watching TV. She pointed and yelled, "After treating me so poorly, I don't want to sleep with you tonight. Get out!"

Have you ever heard that slight imperfections could make things more beautiful or more valuable? At age fifty-nine, Pat is a smoke-show. We had exercised, at a minimum, five days a week since high school and were both in exceptional shape. Pat is slender and athletic. And her ass ... an ass that still makes high school boys weep, is even more spectacular because of a slight imperfection.

Underneath each perfect heart-shaped bum and at the point that her ass turns to thigh, is a tiny line of cellulite. It's been there her entire life. That line makes me smile every time Pat straddles my face and slowly lowers her pussy to my mouth. Pat's aware of the cellulite and it bothers her a lot. I suspect the only reason she hasn't had it surgically removed is because she can't see it.

For the first time in my marriage, I decided to emotionally hurt my wife.

"If you don't want to sleep with me, then move your cottage cheese ass down to the guest room."

Pat was stunned and I thought she was going to vomit. With tears falling down her cheek she wordlessly gathered up her pillows and stormed past the splintered door to one of the spare bedrooms.

Life went on. We took our annual two-week vacation to Cape Cod with the kids and the special person in their lives. Our anger thawed. Sex was back to a twice a week schedule, but the everyday kisses and touching was almost nonexistent. It made me sad.

We were at my son, Paul's, home for Labor Day weekend. He is married and has a two-and-a-half-year-old son named Regan. Paul's wife Denise is a registered nurse and works three twelve-hour shifts a week from Thursday through Saturday. My biggest joy every week is babysitting Regan. Denise started back to work when Regan turned six months old. I take care of him Thursday's, his maternal grandmother takes Friday's and Paul can handle him on Saturday's.

Our family was sitting around the back yard, when Denise said to me, "So your plans to go to Florida have changed."

"They sure have," I answered.

"Does that mean you'll be able to watch Regan on Thursdays through the winter?" Denise asked with an all-knowing smirk.

"Of course, he will," Pat opined. "Chris tells everyone it's the highlight of his week." My family smiled and nodded.

"I'm sorry, you confused me," I said to Denise and the group. "When you asked if my plans had changed, I thought you meant that I'm now going to Florida alone, instead of going with Pat."

Pat erupted, "For Christ's sake Chris, you're not going to Florida by yourself and that's final. I don't know why you need to worry the kids about finding another babysitter. This is just ridiculous."

As it was family time and I didn't want to burden our kids, I decided not to argue with Pat. I smiled, got up and asked, "Does anyone need a beer?"

Paul and Joey helped me get the drinks and Paul asked, "Dad ... ummm ... you're going to Florida, aren't you?"

"I am. I decided a couple of weeks ago. I doubt I'll stay through March, as we'd initially planned, but I'm not sure."

Paul and Joey both started laughing, so I asked, "What's so funny?"

Joey told me, "Mom's going to be pissed the whole time you're gone. Do you mind if I come visit?"

Pat started back to school the Tuesday morning following the Labor Day holiday weekend. Our alarm went off at 4:45AM, as it did every weekday morning. Instead of going to her art room, as she'd done every day over the summer, Pat got ready for school. As normal, I grabbed my fishing poles and coffee and headed to the beach.

I received a text message from Pat thirty minutes later.

'Where's my breakfast?'

Since I had retired, I'd made Pat's breakfast every morning, while she got ready for school. During the summer months, we ate breakfast together at 8:30.

I texted back: 'As you know, I make breakfast when I get back from fishing.'