I listened.
When she went to bed, I stayed on the porch alone and realized that for years I’d been chasing security like it was the only thing that mattered. But security without connection is just a locked door.
The next week, Jake came up.
Jake is twenty-three, all restless energy and half-finished plans.
He looks like Linda—dark hair, bright eyes—but he has my stubborn jaw. He pulled into my gravel driveway in a beat-up truck and stepped out like he was bracing for a fight.
“Dad,” he said.
“Son,” I replied.
He didn’t hug me. He just stared.
“Is it true?” he asked.
“What part?” I asked.
“The money,” he said.
“The trust. The thing with Mom and that guy.”
Jake’s hands curled into fists.
“She was going to take everything,” he said.
“She was going to try,” I corrected.
Jake’s face flushed.
“And you just… played along,” he said. “You didn’t tell us.”
I felt the guilt hit.
“I was trying to protect you,” I said.
Jake laughed, sharp.
“No,” he said.
“You were trying to protect yourself. Which is fine. You should.
But don’t act like you were doing it for us.”
The words stung because they were partly true.
“I didn’t want you to have to choose sides,” I said.
Jake shook his head.
“We’re your kids,” he said. “We already got dragged into it. We just didn’t know.”
He kicked a rock, watching it tumble off into the weeds.
“Mom called me two months ago,” he said.
“What did she say?”
Jake’s mouth tightened.
“She said you were turning us against her,” he replied.
“She said you were making her look like a monster.”
I inhaled.
“And what did you say?”
Jake looked up, eyes hard.
“I said she made herself look like that,” he said.
We stood there in the cold air, the ridge wind pushing at our jackets.
Jake’s anger wasn’t just anger. It was grief. It was the loss of the mother he thought he had.
The loss of the marriage he’d assumed was steady. He’d grown up in a house where I worked too much and Linda managed the feelings. I’d taken that division for granted.
Now it was gone.
Jake walked into the house, looked around like he expected to find echoes of our old life in the corners.
“This place is… nice,” he said, like it was a complaint.
“It’s quiet,” I said.
Jake snorted.
“Of course it is,” he said.
“It’s you.”
He meant it as a jab, but I didn’t argue. I deserved it.
That night, Jake and I built a fire in the living room. We drank coffee because he was too young for bourbon and I was trying to be better.
He stared at the flames.
“Do you hate her?” he asked.
I thought about that oak staircase.
About the voice on the phone.
“I hated what she did,” I said slowly. “I hated what she planned. But hate is heavy.
It ties you to someone.”
Jake’s brow furrowed.
“So what do you feel?” he asked.
I took a breath.
“I feel sad,” I admitted. “I feel relieved. I feel angry sometimes.
And sometimes I feel… nothing.”
Jake nodded like he understood.
“She ruined everything,” he whispered.
“No,” I said.
Jake looked at me.
“She damaged it,” I corrected. “But she didn’t get to ruin me. That’s a choice.”
Jake stared at the fire again.
“You really think you won,” he said.
I watched the flames flicker.
“I think I survived,” I said.
“And sometimes that’s the win.”
A month later, Patricia called.
Her voice was clipped, businesslike.
“Robert, I need you to come into the office,” she said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“It’s not a crisis,” she said. “But it could become one if we’re not careful.”
That was Patricia’s version of reassurance.
I drove down the mountain, through fog that clung to the trees like smoke, and into her office in the next town over. Patricia had a folder on her desk and an expression that told me she hadn’t slept much.
“What is it?” I asked.
Patricia slid the folder across.
“David Thompson,” she said.
My jaw tightened.
“He’s making noise,” Patricia continued.
“Not publicly. But he’s contacting people. Trying to see who will talk.
Who will threaten.”
I stared at the folder.
“Why?” I asked.
Patricia tapped the paperwork.
“Because the state financial board opened an investigation,” she said. “And he’s scrambling.”
I opened the folder. There were copies of complaints, blurred names, redacted details.
Women describing similar patterns. Information accessed. Divorce plans.
Asset protection schemes. A coach in the background pushing them toward the most profitable outcome.
“Ten out of twelve,” I muttered, remembering what Marcus Shaw had told me.
Patricia nodded.
“They’ve got him on licensing violations,” she said. “Possibly fraud.
Possibly conspiracy. But here’s the problem.”
I looked up.
“His attorney requested your cooperation,” she said. “They want a statement that your case was a misunderstanding.
That there was no wrongdoing.”
My chest tightened.
“No,” I said immediately.
Patricia held up a hand.
“I know,” she said. “But you need to understand what they’re doing.”
She leaned forward.
“Thompson is trying to build an argument that he’s a legitimate consultant who got pulled into a messy marriage,” she said. “He wants to make it look like you’re an outlier.
Like you’re vindictive. Like you exaggerated.”
I felt heat rise.
“I have recordings,” I said.
“And we have the HR breach,” she said. “But the state board is a machine.
They want patterns. They want multiple confirmations. If you’re willing to cooperate, it strengthens the case.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked.
Patricia’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t owe anyone your pain,” she said.
“But if you stay silent, he keeps doing it.”
The sentence hung there.
I thought about the coffee shop, my hands shaking, my whole future narrowing into a single point of panic. I thought about how lucky I’d been to overhear Linda. How close I’d come to losing everything.
I looked at Patricia.
“What do you need from me?” I asked.
Patricia’s smile was small, almost approving.
“A sworn statement,” she said.
“Your records. Your timeline. And possibly your testimony if it goes to a hearing.”
“Fine,” I said.
Patricia leaned back.
“And Robert,” she added.
“Yes?”
“Don’t talk to Linda about this,” she said.
“And if Thompson contacts you directly, you call me.”
“Understood,” I said.
Two weeks later, Thompson contacted me anyway.
It wasn’t a direct call. It was a letter delivered to my mailbox in the mountains, the envelope thick and expensive, the kind of stationery that tries to intimidate you with texture.
Inside was a note.
Mr. Mitchell,
I understand there has been some misunderstanding regarding my role in your divorce proceedings.
I regret any distress you may have experienced. I believe we can resolve this amicably.
I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you privately.
Sincerely,
David Thompson.
There was a business card attached, glossy, perfect.
I stared at it for a long time.
The audacity wasn’t even what made me angry. It was the assumption.
The belief that a man like him could always talk his way out.
I called Patricia.
“I got a letter,” I said.
Patricia’s voice was sharp.
“Do not respond,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to,” I replied.
“Good,” she said. “Send me a photo.”
I did.
That night, I sat on my porch and watched the valley darken. I held the business card between my fingers and felt something steady in me.
Old me would’ve wanted to win by humiliating him.
New me wanted to win by removing his access.
By making sure he couldn’t do this to someone else.
In early spring, I drove back to Richmond for the state board hearing.
It was held in a sterile government building that smelled like old carpet and bureaucracy.
I wore my best suit out of habit, then felt ridiculous among people in jeans and sweaters who were there because their lives had been cracked open.
Patricia met me outside.
“You ready?” she asked.
“Good,” she replied. “That means you’re paying attention.”
Inside, I sat on a hard chair and watched women I didn’t know walk to the front and speak about their marriages like they were reading from an autopsy report.
One woman, maybe fifty, spoke about a pension she’d never understood until Thompson explained how to take it.
Another woman, younger, spoke about being coached to write down “incidents” that weren’t real.
“Make it look like he controls you,” Thompson had allegedly told her.
It sounded so familiar it made my stomach twist.
When it was my turn, I stood and felt my knees lock.
The panel asked my name.
“Robert Mitchell,” I said.
They asked my occupation.
“Retired engineer,” I replied.
They asked why I was there.
“Because someone helped my wife access private information,” I said. “Because Thompson used it
