Connor was getting nervous. This afternoon, while I was out running errands, he called me 27 times in one hour. Twenty-seven.
When I finally called him back, he was practically frantic. “Is everything okay? Are you mad at me?
Did something happen with your family?” he asked in a rush. I played it cool. “My phone was in my purse while I was at Target.
Everything’s fine. Why would you think otherwise?”
The silence on his end was deafening. So now I’m here, locked in the bathroom with the shower running so he doesn’t hear me cry, trying to figure out my next move.
A part of me wants to scream in his face. But another, colder part wants to be strategic. He spent three years lying to my face.
Surely, I can manage a few weeks of the same. The two weeks that followed were the most exhausting performance of my life. The day after my 27-call ordeal, I decided I needed to be methodical.
No emotional reactions, no confrontations until I had everything lined up perfectly. I made a list:
Secure my financial situation. Gather evidence of his true character.
Find out how deep his deception goes. Prepare an exit strategy. First, I called my personal bank and locked down my account with new passwords and verbal security questions.
Then I began slowly siphoning money from our joint accounts into my personal one. When Connor suggested a weekend trip to “reconnect,” I agreed, but steered him toward my family’s rustic, Wi-Fi-less cabin by the lake instead of the luxury resort he had in mind. The flash of disappointment on his face was fleeting but unmistakable.
At the cabin, he was agitated, constantly wandering to the end of the dock, trying to get a single bar of cell service. I followed him once and overheard him telling someone on the phone he was “going crazy being trapped in the middle of nowhere” and would “make it up to them” when he got back. During the trip, I casually dropped my made-up story about my dad’s health and potential retirement.
Connor spent the next hour asking increasingly detailed questions about the family trust and our “future security.” He barely mentioned a word about my dad’s fictional health issues. It was like watching someone rip off their own mask without realizing they were doing it. Back home, the real discovery happened.
Last week, while he was at the gym, I went through his nightstand—something I never thought I’d do. Inside, I found a second phone, a cheap prepaid one. He’d scribbled the password on a sticky note on the back.
Classic Connor. The phone had only one contact saved: “D.” The texts were a horrifying timeline of their plan: discussions about money, arranging meetups, and references to a “long-term plan.” One message from three months ago literally said: “Just two more years and we’re set.” Two more years until what? I took pictures of every single message with my phone before carefully replacing his exactly as I’d found it.
The psychological warfare became the strangest part of all this. My subtle changes in behavior made Connor increasingly paranoid. He started going through my closet when I was in the shower.
He scrolled through my iPad search history, where I had intentionally left searches for “signs your husband is cheating” and “separate bank accounts in marriage.”
Suddenly, all the household tasks he’d been putting off for months were getting done. The squeaky bathroom door was fixed. The broken porch light was replaced.
It was like watching someone frantically trying to prove their value before a performance review. My best friend, Loretta, became my co-conspirator. I started having “late client meetings,” which were actually just me sitting in a Starbucks with her, taking notes and planning my next steps.
One night, Connor showed up unannounced with dinner, claiming he “missed me,” then spent the meal interrogating me about a call he’d overheard me having with Loretta where I’d mentioned making “big changes.” The call was about redoing our guest bedroom, but he didn’t need to know that. His desperation peaked. He suggested we have another vow renewal ceremony, this time for our parents who couldn’t make it to the first one.
When I asked why, he stammered something about “celebrating our love.” The translation was clear: he was panicking and wanted to cement his position with my family. I smiled and said, “Maybe next year.”
What he didn’t know was that I’d already spoken to a lawyer—not our family lawyer, but one Loretta had recommended. I had an appointment next week.
My escape plan was almost complete. He pushed for a dinner at my parents’ house. He was in full charm mode, the perfect son-in-law.
During dinner, he casually brought up researching investment properties in their neighborhood. My dad, bless him, took the bait and talked about rising property values. Connor’s eyes lit up like a slot machine hitting the jackpot.
That night, back home, he suggested we start trying for a baby. It was his most audacious move yet. I nearly choked on my wine.
He gave a teary-eyed speech about realizing what truly matters. Oscar-worthy, indeed. I smiled.
“That’s quite a coincidence,” I said, watching the hope flash in his eyes. “Because I’ve been doing some thinking about our future, too.” The hope vanished, replaced by panic. “I’ve been thinking about honesty,” I said calmly.
“About what people really want versus what they say they want. Do you remember your vows at our renewal?”
He nodded, attempting a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Of course.
I meant every word.”
I pulled my hand away from his grasp. “That’s interesting. Because I could have sworn I heard you tell your friend that the vow renewal was pure torture.”
The color drained from his face.
His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. “Or maybe I misheard,” I continued. “Maybe you didn’t call our marriage a nightmare.
Maybe I imagined the part where you called me ‘the money wife.’”
He knocked his wine glass over then, sending red wine cascading across our white tablecloth. He stared at me, his expression one of pure horror. “You… you heard that?”
“I came home early from Nashville to surprise you,” I said softly.
“Surprise.”
He tried to backtrack, claiming he was just “venting.”
“Venting?” I repeated. “Which part was the misunderstanding, Connor? The part where you said you were just waiting to be established enough to have other options?”
He crumbled, switching from denial to a pathetic, tearful apology.
He loved me, he didn’t mean it, he was going through a personal crisis. I watched the performance and felt nothing but cold pity. “Are you leaving me?” he finally whispered.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I lied. The meeting was at 10 a.m. in my dad’s home office.
Me, Connor, my parents, and our family’s financial advisor. Connor was all smiles, thinking this was his chance to solidify his place. My dad started.
“Connor, before we begin, is there anything you want to tell us?”
Connor, confused, said no. My dad nodded, then slid a folder across the table. It contained printouts of the secret withdrawals, screenshots of his texts with “D,” and a full transcript of the phone call I’d overheard.
His face collapsed. He went from confused to shocked to panicked in about ten seconds flat. My mother, who had been quietly seething, finally lost it.
“A misunderstanding?” she spat. “You are a gold-digging parasite, and I have never been so disappointed in my judgment of character.”
The meeting ended with the advisor explaining that Connor was being formally removed from all family trusts and business interests. My dad informed him that divorce papers would be delivered that afternoon and that he had 24 hours to leave our house.
His final play was turning to me with tears in his eyes. “Are you really going to throw away three years of marriage over one stupid conversation?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not throwing anything away.
You already did that when you decided I was nothing but a meal ticket.”
The divorce was surprisingly quick. When one party has overwhelming evidence of fraudulent pretense, things move efficiently. In the end, he walked away with significantly less than he’d hoped for.
The most satisfying moment was in our final mediation, when his lawyer brought up his “contributions” to my family’s business. My attorney simply played the recording of him calling me “the money wife.” The look on his face when he realized his own words had destroyed him was priceless. I moved out of our house before it was even sold.
I found a beautiful apartment downtown, smaller but completely mine. My relationship with my parents has deepened. My dad apologized, saying he worried my upbringing had made me a target and he should have better prepared me for people who see kindness as an opportunity.
And “D”? D stands for Denise, Connor’s ex-girlfriend from college. She reached out to me, attaching screenshots of their texts where he promised they’d be together once his “plan” was complete.
She thought she was special. I sent her back one message: “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
The divorce was finalized last month.
Last week, my mom sent me a Facebook screenshot of Connor at a charity gala with his new girlfriend—the daughter of one of my dad’s business associates. My first reaction wasn’t jealousy or anger. It was relief.
Relief that he’s someone else’s problem now. Relief that I don’t have to wonder if every smile is part of a performance. The money wife is dead.
Long live just plain Natalie.
