He Played at Divorce Until I Made It Real

My husband, Rick Holden, presented a fresh divorce agreement, his signature already scrawled across the bottom.

It was the same boring game.

At the funeral, my mother's body lay in the cold casket. Yet Rick decided to start his sick game again.

I stared at the face I had once adored. For three years, whenever he produced those documents, I had cried, begged, and raged exactly as he scripted, only to be pulled back into his arms the next day while he laughed and ripped the agreement to shreds.

He had said it was to spice up the marriage, and I had gone along with him.

But now, my mother, Helen Marsh, was gone. In her final moments, she had clung to my hand and looked at the door, waiting for the man she'd treated like a son to come say goodbye.

He never came.

I bowed to the casket, took the pen from Rick's hand, and signed it without fussing.

"There," I said.

He froze, expecting the usual breakdown, the tears, and accusations. Instead, I remained perfectly calm.

"What are you pulling now?" he demanded, irritation sharpening his voice.

His companion, Zoe Brooks, sensed the tension and squeezed his arm. "Maybe she is just overwhelmed."

I folded the signed copy and slipped it into my purse. Meeting his eyes, I said, "The game is over, Rick."

...

The next morning, I went straight to the courthouse and submitted the signed agreement along with a formal divorce petition.

The clerk reviewed the documents, glanced at me with professional neutrality, and processed everything without a word.

By the time I left, my phone was flooded with missed calls and messages from Rick.

[Eleanor, enough with your tantrum. Come home.]

[I tore up the agreement. This never happened.]

[You hung up on me? You're getting bold.]

The most recent one was sent just 30 minutes ago.

[If you don't come back right now, don't ever bother coming back at all.]

I blocked his number, rented a small apartment, and began searching for jobs. After our wedding, Rick had convinced me to quit my job and be a housewife. I had always been available to play whatever role he needed in his endless fantasies.

He had sworn his love was so deep that he needed to fall in love with me again and again in different worlds. He claimed the cold, selfish men he portrayed were never truly him—just acting.

Looking back, those cold, selfish, cruel men he played had never been characters. They had been him.

The court summons reached him quickly, and he called when I was in the middle of an interview.

"Have you lost your mind? You filed for divorce?" he yelled.

I stepped into the hallway. "We both signed the agreement. I'm just formalizing it so we can finish this faster."

"Finish it? You are not divorcing me! I don't allow it!"

"My mother is dead."

He paused, then his voice turned cold. "I know. That was her fate. You can't punish me for it. Games are games, and reality is reality. Can't you even tell the difference anymore?"