My name is Travis Parker, and up until recently, I thought I had a pretty good life. I lived in Charlotte with my wife, Monica, and our three kids-Traci, Francis, and Beth. We had the classic suburban dream: a nice house, steady jobs, and a routine that was predictable, if not a little chaotic. Mornings were a whirlwind of Beth running late for school, Francis barely functioning before noon, and Traci observing it all with the judgmental energy of someone who had already given up on the rest of us. Monica and I? We were partners in all of it, tackling the daily grind like two seasoned pros. Or at least, that's what I thought.
Evenings were the best part of the day-when we'd pretend to watch TV while actually just roasting each other. Traci would roll her eyes at my terrible dad jokes, Francis would drop random trivia that nobody asked for, and Beth would do her best to convince me to fund her shopping addiction. Monica, meanwhile, would sit there, smiling, laughing in all the right places. I see it now-that her laughter wasn't quite reaching her eyes, that there was distance even when she was sitting right next to me. But at the time, I chalked it up to stress, exhaustion-anything but what it actually was.
Because why would I question it? We had been together for over twenty years. We had been through everything-good times, rough patches, the time I accidentally set the backyard grill on fire. If something was wrong, she'd tell me. Right? But truth has a funny way of hitting you like a truck when you least expect it. And I was about to learn that the life I thought was stable was already cracking beneath my feet.
I always prided myself on being a logical guy, a man of reason-until my Wi-Fi decided to play detective. That morning, as I sipped my coffee, I noticed our internet was running slower than a turtle in a coma. With two teenagers in the house, I figured someone was streaming an entire series in 4K. But when I pulled up the router's device log-yes, I'm that kind of dad-I noticed an unfamiliar device named "Big Rick's iPhone." Now, unless Beth had taken up online dating under an alias that sounded like a trucker's CB handle, something was off. My gut tightened, but I wasn't about to jump to conclusions-not yet.
So, like any tech-savvy husband with a sinking feeling, I turned on our security cameras. A few minutes later, while casually pretending to check emails, I watched Monica leave the house... and head straight next door. My next-door neighbor, Rick, was a divorced ex-gym rat who spent more time shirtless in his driveway than was socially acceptable. I told myself it was just a friendly visit, maybe borrowing sugar or something-though I doubted Rick even owned sugar. But then, Monica didn't come back. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. My brain spun in circles, coming up with reasonable explanations. Maybe she was discussing the HOA's ridiculous grass-length policies. Maybe she had fallen into a deep conversation about protein shakes. Maybe... I needed actual evidence.
I decided to go full-on detective mode. Pulling out my phone, I walked outside, pretending to water the plants with an empty watering can-real subtle, I know. As I neared Rick's house, I heard... laughter. And not just any laughter-Monica's. That laugh that used to be reserved for my dumb dad jokes, now echoing from another man's patio. Peeking through the side gate like some low-budget spy, I caught sight of them-Monica leaning in close, her hand on his arm, his smug grin beaming back at her. My stomach twisted into a sailor's knot. There it was. The evidence I didn't want but couldn't ignore.
I didn't barge in, didn't scream. Instead, I stood there, gripping my useless watering can, feeling like the biggest fool in Charlotte. I had suspected, but now I knew. And as I turned away, my mind raced with one thought: How in the world was I supposed to act normal when I walked back inside? Because if there was one thing I needed more than confirmation-it was a plan.
I stepped back inside the house, closing the door behind me with the kind of careful precision that only someone trying to keep their emotions in check could manage. My hands were steady, my face blank, but inside? It felt like my brain had been thrown into a blender set to "shred." Without thinking, I walked straight to my home office, sat down at my desk, and opened my laptop. The Google search bar stared back at me, waiting for direction. "How to file for divorce in North Carolina." My fingers typed the words like they had a mind of their own, as if my entire body had gone into autopilot. I wasn't even sure if I was ready for this-hell, I didn't even know what "this" was yet. But if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was research. When life fell apart, I didn't scream or break things-I made a damn spreadsheet.
A soft knock on the door pulled me out of my trance. I barely had time to minimize the divorce page before Beth popped her head in. "Hey, Dad? Can I borrow the car? I need to run to the mall." She spoke fast, like she expected me to say no. Instead, without looking up, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my keys, and tossed them in her general direction. She caught them with the kind of surprised reflexes that only teenagers seem to have. "Uh... thanks?" she said, looking at me like I'd just handed her a winning lottery ticket.
Beth hesitated, then stepped farther into the room. "What are you doing?" she asked, curiosity creeping into her voice. I glanced at my screen, at the tab labeled "Divorce Process: A Step-by-Step Guide", and exhaled. "I'm making a plan," I said simply, my voice even. Because that's what I did-I made plans. Plans for work. Plans for vacations. Plans for retirement. And now, apparently, plans for life after Monica.
Beth frowned, crossing her arms. "What kind of plan?" she pressed. I finally looked up at her, met her eyes, and with a wry smile, I said it before I could stop myself: "A divorce plan." The second the words left my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they sounded. Beth's eyes widened, then she let out an awkward laugh. "Wow. Okay. Um... have fun with that?" she said, backing toward the door, clearly wanting no part in whatever emotional crisis I was having. And just like that, she was gone, off to the mall with my car, leaving me alone with my search history and the grim realization that my life had just taken a turn I never saw coming.
After Beth left, I leaned back in my chair, staring at the list of steps on my screen. Step One: Gather Evidence. Well, I had that part covered. I didn't need a private investigator or some dramatic courtroom reveal-I'd seen enough with my own eyes. Still, a voice in the back of my head nagged at me. Maybe I should take screenshots of the router logs. Maybe I should check the security footage again. Or maybe I should hire an actual lawyer instead of relying on a website that looked like it was last updated in 2009. But the truth was, no amount of digital paper trails could erase what I'd already witnessed.
Step Two: Organize Your Finances. Now, this was the kind of thing I could focus on. Numbers, spreadsheets, bank statements-facts that didn't have feelings. I opened my budgeting app and started combing through everything. Mortgage, savings, college funds, the shared accounts with Monica. The sheer entanglement of our finances made my stomach turn. Every deposit, every withdrawal, every expense-it was all wrapped up in a life we had built together. And now, I had to figure out how to untangle it, like trying to pull apart Christmas lights that had been in a box for fifteen years.
Step Three: Consider Living Arrangements. That one stopped me cold. This was my house. My home. I had put in the hours to afford it, painted the walls, fixed the leaky faucets, even built Beth's ridiculous floating shelves that she never actually used. But would I be the one to leave? Would Monica? The thought of sitting across from her and discussing who got what made my skin crawl. I sighed and rubbed my temples. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself-maybe this was just the anger talking. Or maybe I had spent too many years avoiding the truth, and now it was finally demanding to be dealt with.
Step Four: Talk to Your Spouse. I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. Right. The hardest part. How was I even supposed to start that conversation? "Hey, honey, I noticed our internet history suggests you're cheating on me with Big Rick. Thoughts?" No, that wouldn't work. But I had to do it eventually. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. Because the moment I saw Monica laughing in Rick's backyard, something inside me had shifted. And now, there was no going back.
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I typed: "Best divorce lawyers in Charlotte." Instantly, a flood of legal websites popped up, each promising aggressive representation, maximum asset protection, and-my personal favorite"fierce advocacy." Yeah, I didn't want some mild-mannered, handshake-loving mediator. I wanted someone who lived for the courtroom, who woke up in the morning and drank their coffee black while planning how to financially eviscerate the opposing party. I didn't just need a shark-I needed a damn killer whale. A legal predator who could tear through Monica's case like an orca dismantling a seal in a nature documentary.
Scrolling through the options, I clicked on a few profiles, trying to assess their potential for ruthless efficiency. One guy had a picture of himself standing in front of a bookshelf full of law books, looking like he personally invented divorce law. Another woman had a tagline that read: "Divorce is war, and I don't lose battles." Now we were talking. Then there was the one whose bio proudly stated he had once litigated his own divorce while representing three other clients at the same time. Impressive, but maybe also a red flag.
For a brief, fleeting second, I considered my dad. Technically, he was a lawyer. A retired one, but still. He'd handled contracts and real estate deals his whole life-how different could a divorce be? Plus, he'd probably do it for free, which meant I could put that money toward... well, the inevitable misery that comes with splitting assets. But then reality hit me. If Dad got involved, that meant Mom would get involved. And once Mom got involved, my entire family would be in DEFCON 1 mode. There would be phone calls, unsolicited advice, casseroles, and a level of outrage that not even my killer whale lawyer could match. Yeah, no thanks. I'd rather pay the retainer.
Sighing, I bookmarked a few promising options, making a mental note to set up consultations. The absurdity of the situation wasn't lost on me. This morning, I was just a guy drinking coffee, checking his Wi-Fi, and living his life. Now, I was preparing for a legal battle, hunting for the deadliest divorce attorney money could buy. I exhaled, rubbing my temples. This was really happening.
After scanning through my shortlist of attorneys, I settled on the one whose website practically radiated "I make my clients' exes cry in court." The firm's tagline-"Winning Custody Battles and Assets Since 1998"-sealed the deal. With a deep breath, I grabbed my phone and dialed. A chipper receptionist answered, completely oblivious to the fact that I was about to nuke my marriage. I kept my voice calm, professional. "Hi, I'd like to schedule a consultation." After a few standard questions, she set me up with an appointment for tomorrow morning. That was it. I had just booked my first step toward divorce. There was no turning back now.
I hung up and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The real problem was Monica. She would be home in a few hours, and I had no idea how I was supposed to act. I wasn't exactly the "fake it till you make it" type. My face had about as much subtlety as a billboard. But if I confronted her outright, things could get ugly fast. There would be excuses, denials, maybe even some crocodile tears. I didn't want to hear them. I didn't want to sit across from her at the dinner table, pretending our life hadn't just imploded. Nope. Not happening. I needed space, time to think. The best move? Get out before she got back.
