Lauren had contributed substantially to renovations after the wedding.
That mattered.
I knew enough not to pretend marriage law worked according to whoever felt most betrayed.
The money was clearer.
We had joint checking.
Joint savings.
Separate retirement accounts.
A joint credit card.
A home equity line we had opened during the kitchen renovation but barely used.
And one small investment account Lauren had encouraged us to create the previous year.
At 8:30, I called an attorney named Rebecca Sloan.
Nathan knew her through a client.
She practiced family law in Princeton.
Her assistant offered me a consultation the following afternoon.
I said it was urgent.
The appointment moved to eleven.
Rebecca was in her late forties, wore rimless glasses, and had the calm expression of someone who had listened to thousands of people describe the worst week of their lives and understood that emotion did not change statutes.
I told her what happened.
She took notes.
When I finished, she asked:
“Do you want a divorce?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m going to tell you several things you probably won’t enjoy hearing.”
“Okay.”
“Do not empty joint accounts.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not cancel her health insurance.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Do not change the locks and deny her access to the marital residence without agreement or court authority.”
“I thought about changing them.”
“Don’t.”
I nodded.
“Do not contact Mr. Turner.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good. Do not post online. Do not message his wife if he is married. Do not threaten anyone. Do not destroy property.”
“I understand.”
Rebecca leaned back.
“Now tell me whether you have reason to believe marital funds are being dissipated.”
I paused.
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
That afternoon, I went home and downloaded twelve months of statements from every account I could lawfully access.
I did not search Lauren’s personal phone.
I did not break passwords.
I did not need to.
Our joint financial history was enough.
At first, nothing appeared unusual.
Mortgage.
Utilities.
Restaurants.
Travel.
Furniture.
Then I noticed three transfers.
$4,500.
$7,000.
$12,500.
All made from joint savings over six weeks.
The destination was an account I did not recognize.
Each transfer carried the same short description:
L.M. PERSONAL.
I stared at the screen.
Lauren had told me she was moving money into a higher-yield savings account.
I had forgotten.
At the time, I assumed the account remained jointly designated.
Apparently not.
The total was $24,000.
I called Rebecca.
“Do not touch the remaining funds,” she said.
“What about the transfers?”
“Send me the statements.”
“Can she just take twenty-four thousand?”
“That is not a question with a one-sentence answer. The money may still be marital property regardless of which account holds it.”
“So what do I do?”
“Document it. We decide what action is appropriate after we know more.”
That sentence became the structure of my week.
Document first.
React later.
By Wednesday, Lauren had sent six messages.
The first arrived Tuesday morning.
I’m okay. I think we both need time.
I did not respond.
That afternoon:
Please don’t turn this into something ugly.
I stared at that one for a while.
She had announced plans to sleep with another man and was now warning me against ugliness.
I said nothing.
Wednesday morning:
Blake and I are talking. That’s all you need to know.
Wednesday night:
Are you seriously going to ignore me?
I replied finally.
I’m respecting the space you requested.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.