So I didn’t go hacking into Tyler’s private accounts.
I didn’t need to.
We had a desktop that Tyler normally used when he was home.
He had left his airline email and personal messages synced.
And apparently, once a man decides his marriage is already over, he gets careless.
I found months of messages.
Hotel confirmations and restaurant charges.
Photos and messages about Laila’s pregnancy.
A copy of the prenatal paternity test they’d done after she became pregnant.
I forwarded everything I was legally able to access to Denise.
Two days later, Tyler came home while Mason was at school.
He packed clothes into two suitcases.
“I’m staying with Laila for now.”
I stood in the bedroom doorway.
“Okay.”
He looked surprised.
Maybe he expected me to beg him. I didn’t.
I asked one question.
“Do you ever plan to have a conversation with Mason?”
Tyler looked down. “I haven’t figured that part out.”
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That answer told me more about him than the affair had.
The divorce took almost nine months.
It was exhausting.
It involved emails, disclosures, appraisals, mediation, legal bills, and arguments about schedules.
We sold the house because neither of us could comfortably buy out the other’s share.
The equity was divided according to our settlement.
We also divided savings and other marital assets.
I worried about money at first because I wasn’t traditionally employed.
I’m an artist.
For years, people treated that like a hobby because I worked from home. It wasn’t.
I sold original work, took commissions, licensed a few designs, and saved and invested part of what I earned.
I wasn’t rich. But I wasn’t helpless.
Mason lived primarily with me.
Tyler received parenting time under a regular schedule, including overnights once Mason became more comfortable.
I never tried to keep them apart.
Mason loved his father, even while he was furious with him.
Those two things could exist at once.
