The Go-Dutch Couple Splits the Divorce Too

Two years ago, Angela's mother had a sudden brain hemorrhage and was rushed to the hospital. It was two in the morning. The phone at home wouldn't stop ringing. Angela hung up, her face drained of color, and snatched up her clothes, ready to run out the door. "What's wrong?" Desmond woke, annoyed, and sat up. "My mom had a brain hemorrhage. They're trying to save her right now." Angela's voice shook, her fingers fumbling the buttons into the wrong holes. Desmond paused, then threw off the blanket and got out of bed. "I'll drive you." At the hospital, the light over the operating room was on. Angela's brother was pacing outside the door, frantic, and when he saw Angela it was like grabbing a lifeline. "Sis! The doctor says she needs surgery immediately, and then the ICU. The deposit is fifteen thousand. I've only got five in hand. You have to think of something, fast!" Angela pulled out her phone and checked her balance, and her face went ashen. She scrimped and saved, but on forty-five hundred a month, after her split share of the household costs with Desmond and their daughter's odds and ends, there was almost nothing left over. She turned and looked at Desmond, standing at the far end of the hall answering work emails. He felt her gaze, put his phone away, and came over. "How does it look?" "There's a deposit." Angela's lips were cracked and dry. "Desmond, could you... lend me ten thousand?" "Lend?" He raised an eyebrow. "Your mother's sick, and as her son-in-law it's only right that I help out some. But that's not a small sum, so I'll need to follow the proper process." Angela stared at him, something almost imperceptibly dead in her eyes. "What process?" "Sign an IOU." Desmond took the notebook and fountain pen he always carried from his briefcase. "Even between family, you keep clear accounts. This isn't a small amount, and it's your side of the family, not a shared household expense." People came and went in the hallway. Angela's brother, listening beside her, was struck dumb, and just as he moved to charge forward, Angela threw out an arm and stopped him. "Fine," Angela said. Desmond scrawled out the IOU in a few strokes and handed it to her. "Take a look, and if there's no problem, sign. Given the size of the amount, in the interest of fairness, interest will be calculated at the bank's current loan rate, with a repayment term of one year." Angela took the paper and pen and, without hesitating, signed her name and pressed her thumbprint. "Transfer it, then." Angela handed the IOU back. Desmond tucked it away and transferred the ten thousand on his mobile banking app right there. "It's not that I'm heartless." Desmond looked at the light over the operating room. "If it were one of us sick, I'd cover half, no question. But your mother's side, well, your brother's there, so responsibility has to be clearly divided." Desmond often came home to find Angela asleep on the couch, worn out, a rag still in her hand. It didn't move him. If anything, it confirmed his theory. "See, you're earning three thousand more a month now." Desmond had once said this to her, holding a financial statement. "That's the drive that splitting everything gives you. If I just handed you money, would you go work these two jobs? You wouldn't. People are lazy by nature." Angela had been wiping the windows at the time. When she heard it, she stopped, turned her head, and looked at him. It was a strange look. Not the way you'd look at a husband. More like the way you'd look at some strange, curious object. "You're right." Angela smiled a little and went back to the window. "People really can't let themselves get lazy." She set a thick stack of cash on Desmond's desk. "Principal plus interest. Ten thousand seven hundred. Count it." Desmond was a little surprised, and set down the finance magazine in his hand. "Paid off already? Not bad." He picked up the money and fed it into the bill counter. "Shff, shff, shff—" The machine riffling through the notes was jarringly loud in the quiet study. "Exactly right." Desmond put the money in the safe. "Angela, honestly, it's not that I had to have the interest, but it builds a sense of contract. You'll thank me someday." Angela stood on the other side of the desk, hands folded in front of her, the professional posture she'd developed over years as an administrative clerk. "Mm, I already thank you," Angela said flatly. Desmond didn't catch what was underneath it. In good spirits, he stood up. "You retire next week, and it's your fifty-fourth birthday too. I booked Summit Private Kitchen. We'll celebrate then." "Sure." Angela agreed without a beat of hesitation. Desmond thought life would go on like this forever. Precise, rational, nothing owed either way. He held the great fortune and enjoyed the superiority of an elite, while Angela struggled down at the bottom, keeping the household running. It was a perfect balance.

On Angela Pruitt's fifty-fourth birthday, Desmond James left work half an hour early. He made a special trip home to collect a document he'd prepared well in advance, tucked it into his briefcase, and drove to Summit Private Kitchen in the heart of the city. It was a members-only restaurant, two thousand dollars a head to start. Desmond took a seat by the window, the city lights glittering outside. He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock exactly, and Angela appeared in the restaurant doorway right on time. She wore a navy dress today, the same coat as always, only now with a silk scarf around her neck. "Sit." Desmond gestured at the chair across from him. The waiter handed over the menu. Desmond didn't ask Angela's opinion. He flipped it open with practiced ease. "Two lobster dinners, one black truffle mushroom soup, and open a bottle of the twelve-year red." The waiter wrote it down. "Very good, sir. That comes to three thousand eight hundred eighty dollars." Desmond nodded, took out his phone, and tapped a few times on the calculator. "With the fifteen percent service charge, four thousand four hundred sixty-two. Round it down, four thousand four hundred sixty. That's two thousand two hundred thirty each." He looked up at Angela. "Today's a special day, so the wine's my treat. Take four hundred off your share. Just transfer me one thousand eight hundred thirty." Angela didn't look at the menu, and she didn't look at Desmond. She took out her phone and worked at it for a moment. "Sent." "Got it." Satisfied, Desmond put his phone away and took a sip of lemon water. "Angela, today is your first day of retirement, and it's your birthday. Happy birthday." "Thank you." Angela lifted her water glass and drank. The dishes came slowly, each one plated with care. Desmond cut the lobster on his plate, cut it into neat, even pieces, as though dissecting a specimen. "Retirement paperwork all done?" Desmond asked. "Done." "How much is your pension?" "Thirty-two hundred." Desmond set down his knife and fork and dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "Thirty-two hundred. That's thirteen hundred less than what you made working. Add in inflation, and it'll be hard to keep up your old standard of living on that in New York. Especially if you want to keep paying into your benefits at the same base rate. The pressure will be considerable." Angela cut a small piece of lobster, put it in her mouth, chewed slowly. "So?" Desmond put down his knife and fork and leaned forward slightly, striking a negotiating posture. He drew the document out of his briefcase and pushed it across to her. "So I've worked out a plan for you." Desmond tapped a finger on the document. "Given that your income has dropped sharply, I've decided to end the split-everything arrangement we've kept for twenty-six years." Angela's hand paused, her eyes settling on the cover of the document: Household Living Adjustment Agreement. "Open it and take a look," Desmond prompted. Angela flipped it open. Inside, a dozen or so clauses were laid out in dense rows. Desmond narrated beside her. "It's simple. Starting today, you quit all your part-time cleaning jobs and come back to the home. From now on, I'll cover the water, power, and gas, the HOA fees, the grocery money, all of it. You won't have to pay a cent." He watched her expression, and seeing that she didn't cut in, he went on. "In exchange, you handle all the housework. That includes three meals a day, the cleaning, the laundry and ironing, and any home care that may be needed down the road. Of course, to guarantee quality, I'll draw up a performance standard, the same one you worked to when you were cleaning houses." Angela looked at the document, her voice level. "You mean I become the full-time housekeeper to work off my living expenses?" "I wouldn't put it that way," Desmond corrected. "A housekeeper is an employment relationship. We're husband and wife. These days, a live-in housekeeper runs at least six thousand a month, plus room and board. Your pension is only thirty-two hundred, and once you factor in food and lodging, when you do the math, you actually come out ahead. Considering our twenty-six years as a married couple, I'm offering you a 'gift.'" He picked up his wine glass and swirled it gently. "Angela, you're getting older. Those cleaning jobs out there are exhausting, and they're not exactly dignified. Come home, take care of me, live an easier life, and save the money too. It's win-win." Angela closed the document and looked up. Her gaze was clear, like still water rippled once by the wind and then smoothing back to calm just as quickly. Angela smiled. It was the first time in twenty-six years that Desmond had seen her smile like that. Not to placate, not bitterly, but with a kind of relief, as though she'd just heard the biggest joke in the world. "Desmond, you really do keep good accounts." Angela pushed the document back to him. "For twenty-six years you calculated everything down to the penny, never let me get one cent over on you. Now I'm old, I'm retired, and you're still calculating. You want to buy out the rest of my life with a few thousand dollars of living expenses?" Desmond frowned. "How can you think that way? I make seven hundred eighty thousand a year. I could easily hire a younger housekeeper. I chose you because you're already a member of this household, safe, familiar." "A shame." Angela took a kraft envelope out of her bag and set it on the table. "This job, I won't take it." "What do you mean?" Desmond looked at the envelope. Angela pushed the envelope across to him, laying it right on top of the Agreement. "Take a look." Puzzled, Desmond tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers. The first page bore three bold words: Divorce Settlement Agreement. Desmond's hand jerked, and a few drops of red wine spilled onto the spotless white tablecloth. "You want a divorce?" Desmond's voice rose a notch, drawing glances from a few of the surrounding tables. He lowered it. "Angela, have you lost your mind? You're retired now, three thousand a month. Leave me and where do you live? What do you eat? You couldn't even afford to rent a basement in this city!" Angela picked up her napkin and wiped her hands, elegant and unhurried. "That's no longer your concern." With that, she turned and walked away. "Stop right there!" Desmond wanted to grab her, but Angela walked fast, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Desmond sat there staring at the table of expensive dishes barely touched, his face gone ashen with rage. "Waiter!" He waved a hand. "Box it up."

Angela had moved out completely. The next day Desmond came home from work to an empty apartment. The door to the second bedroom stood open, the bed stripped and neat, the wardrobe hanging wide with not a single hanger left inside. In the bathroom, Angela's toothbrush, her towel, that plastic washbasin she'd used for years, all of it gone. A key sat on the coffee table, holding down a note. 【Water bill's paid in full. There's $56 left on the electricity balance. It's yours.】 Desmond crumpled the note into a ball and tossed it in the trash. “Fine, divorce it is.” He loosened his tie and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “Without you I'll starve, is that it?” On the third day, Desmond called a housekeeping agency and asked for their top-tier live-in. “Has to cook well, knows how to press a suit, quiet, quick on her feet.” He rattled off his requirements over the phone. The agency sent over a woman called Sarah Lawrence soon enough. Seven thousand a month. Desmond sat on the couch and watched Sarah work. “Sarah, you mop with the imported cleaner, one part to fifty parts water.” He directed her. “And use the blue cloth for the table, the yellow one for the windowsill.” Sarah nodded as she worked. “Got it, boss.” For the first dinner, Sarah made braised short ribs, grilled sea bass, and a sautéed vegetable side. Desmond took a bite of the short ribs and spat it right back out. “Too sweet! I don't eat sugar. Didn't you know that?” Sarah stared at him. “Boss, who makes braised short ribs without sugar? You never said.” “Angela… the woman before you never used sugar.……” Desmond set down his chopsticks. “Do it again.” The next morning, getting ready for work, Desmond found a crease in the collar of his shirt. “What is this?” He threw the shirt at Sarah. “The iron can't go over three hundred degrees. You've clearly scorched the fabric!” “That's coming out of your pay.” Desmond took out his little notebook. “This shirt cost thirty-two hundred. Figuring in depreciation, that's five hundred off your wages.” Within the week, Sarah quit. On her way out she threw her apron on the floor. “Seven grand and you want somebody to wait on you like the queen mother? Do it yourself! Whoever lasted twenty-six years in this house must've had the patience of a saint!” Over the next month, Desmond went through four more housekeepers. He was left eating out or ordering takeout. But the takeout was greasy, and it left his stomach aching. Late one night, Desmond sat in the messy living room as his stomach cramped. Out of habit he called out, “Angela, where's the stomach medicine?” No answer. Only the robot vacuum bumping into a chair leg with its dull, droning hum. Desmond took out his phone and opened Angela's chat profile. She'd changed her picture. It used to be a lotus flower. Now it was a landscape shot. On her feed, Angela had posted nine photos. Location: the Great Smoky Mountains. In the pictures she wore bright folk costume, standing on a bamboo raft, mountains and green water stretching out behind her. She was laughing, and there were two dimples at the corners of her mouth that Desmond had never once noticed. The caption read: 【Half a life caged, free in a single day. The wind off the river is so sweet.】 Desmond stared at the photo, his fingers clamping down on the phone. Where did she get the money? Her pension was only thirty-two hundred. Airfare and a hotel in the Smokies, this trip had to be five thousand at least. Was she burning through her savings? That was her retirement money. Once it was gone, let's see what she did then. Desmond dialed Angela's number. Five rings, then she picked up. The background was noisy, water sounds, someone singing folk songs. “Hello?” Angela sounded full of energy. “Where are you?” Desmond asked, his face dark. “The Smokies.” “You've got money for vacations now?” Desmond gave a cold snort. “Angela, don't say I didn't warn you. Once that little pension of yours is spent, coming back to beg me won't help. By then, remarrying won't come as cheap as being a full-time housekeeper.” A soft laugh came from her end. “Mr. James, still keeping accounts at a time like this? How I spend my money is my business. The lawyer's letter should be reaching your office soon. Remember to sign for it.” “You actually hired a lawyer?” Desmond stood up and kicked a takeout box out of the way. “Angela, have you lost your mind? Lawyers cost money. Can you even afford tens of thousands in legal fees? And I've told you, you don't stand a chance. I've got twenty-six years of ledgers!” “Whether I stand a chance or not, we'll settle it in court.” With that, Angela hung up. Desmond listened to the dial tone, so angry he laughed. “Fine. Just fine.” He leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath. He was sure Angela hadn't hidden any assets. He'd never actually checked the statements on her salary card, but forty-five hundred a month, minus her split of the expenses, left almost nothing. He was waiting to watch her plead poverty in court and make a fool of herself.

The day of the mediation was overcast. Desmond James wore a well-cut dark gray suit, his hair combed back without a strand out of place. He arrived at the mediation room ten minutes early, Lawyer Chavez at his side. "Be tough in there," Desmond told him. "Make her feel the gap between us." Ten minutes later the door opened. Angela walked in. Desmond blinked. Angela had cut her hair short and had it curled in soft waves, put on light makeup, painted her lips a muted rose. She wore a beige cashmere coat that had real quality to it, and the bag in her hand wasn't that old canvas tote. It was a black leather briefcase. Behind her came a middle-aged man in a pinstripe suit. Desmond's pupils shrank. He knew this man. Les Lambert. The top divorce and family-law attorney in the city, the one who handled billionaire divorces, whose consulting fee ran by the hour and started in the five figures. "This is your lawyer?" Desmond couldn't help himself, and the mockery came through. "Angela, you cleaned out your retirement savings just to save face and hire a lawyer? Lawyer Lambert, do you know she can't cover your final invoice?" Les smiled politely, pulled out a chair for Angela, then sat down beside her and drew a file from his briefcase. "Mr. James, my client paid in full." Les's voice was deep and steady. Once Angela sat down, she didn't look at Desmond at all. She only lowered her head and straightened the cuffs of her sleeves. "Let's keep this brief." The mediator rapped the table. "Petitioner Angela Pruitt, respondent Desmond James. On the matter of the divorce, have the two parties reached an agreement?" "Divorce," Desmond said, arms folded. "But on the property, it's what we said before. She walks away with nothing. I'm not giving her a cent." "We object," Les said. Desmond laughed. "Object? On what grounds? On her forty-five hundred a month?" Les ignored the jab. He drew a thick document out of the folder, handed it to Lawyer Chavez across the table with both hands, and slid a second copy over in front of Desmond. "This is the Marital Community Property Division List my client is submitting, along with the supporting asset documentation." "Based on the principle of joint marital ownership of property during the marriage," Les said evenly, "we are requesting the division of the following assets. She has also submitted a property inventory and the related supporting evidence." Desmond picked up the file without much interest. "What property inventory? What could she possibly own? A few old clothes? Or those bank cards of hers with a few thousand on them?" Then his eyes landed on the first page. The smile froze on his face.