First, a cleaning service. Full deep clean.
Second, a catering company. Sliders, pasta, salads, sides, desserts, and a cake for twenty.
The cost hurt—but not as much as his indifference.
Third call: my lawyer.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Can he be served at the party?”
“Yes,” she replied.
The next day, the house sparkled. Ethan texted, impressed.
“Told you I’d handle it,” I replied.
On party day, the caterers set everything up. Guests arrived. Ethan soaked up praise.
“What happened to your arm?” people asked.
“She’s tough,” Ethan laughed. “Still did everything.”
Then his mother, Carol Moore, arrived, eyeing my cast.
“When I broke my wrist, I still cooked,” she sniffed. “If you don’t try hard enough, men tend to look elsewhere.”
I smiled.
Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
Ethan snapped his fingers. “Get that.”
“You should,” I said. “It’s your surprise.”
He opened the door.
Standing there were a man in a suit, the cleaning manager, and the caterer.
“I’m here to deliver legal documents,” the man said.
Ethan opened the folder. His face drained.
“Divorce?” he shouted.
The cleaning manager handed him an invoice. “Paid in full by your wife.”