Chapter 2 - THE LOCKS ARE CHANGED
Patricia spent twenty of those minutes screaming into her phone to Daniel while hurling her clothes into her suitcase. She slammed doors, knocked over a vase in the foyer, and cursed my name in two languages before finally marching out the front door, slamming it so hard the glass in the hallway mirror rattled.
The moment the door clicked shut, I didn't cry. I picked up my phone and called a 24-hour locksmith company I had used for my investment properties.
“I need a high-security lock cylinder replacement,” I told the dispatcher. “And I need it done within the hour.”
While I waited for the locksmith, I sat down at my dining table with my laptop. I pulled up my primary bank accounts, my investment portfolios, and the deed to the 1,400-square-foot Lincoln Park condominium.
As a senior financial analyst, I dealt with corporate balance sheets every day. I knew how to trace money, isolate assets, and spot liabilities. For three years, I had kept a joint account with Daniel for household expenses, but I had maintained my pre-marital savings in a separate, private trust. Daniel had his own corporate salary, which he spent lavishly on sports cars, golf club memberships, and “loans” to his mother that were never repaid.
My phone rang. It was Daniel again. I answered and put it on speaker, placing it on the table.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Daniel roared through the speaker, his voice distorted with rage. “My mother is standing on the sidewalk in the rain waiting for an Uber! Are you out of your mind, Claire?!”
“Your mother put her hand on my face, Daniel,” I said coldly. “She physically assaulted me. I warned her to leave, and now she’s gone.”
“She’s sixty-four years old!” Daniel yelled. “She raised me! You humiliated her! I am on a plane back to Chicago right now. You better have that front door unlocked and a damn good apology ready when I land at O’Hare.”
“Don't bother coming to the apartment, Daniel,” I said.
A sudden, sharp silence fell over the line.
“What did you just say?” Daniel asked, his tone shifting from anger to a sudden, nervous edge.
“The locksmith is currently rekeying the front door,” I said smoothly as the technician’s drill began to hum in the foyer behind me. “Your personal luggage is packed in three duffel bags sitting in the hallway lobby downstairs. Do not attempt to use your old key. It won't work.”
“Claire! You can't lock me out of my own home!”
“It’s not your home, Daniel. It’s my separate property acquired prior to marriage. I’ve already spoken to a family law attorney this afternoon. Your name is not on the lease, the mortgage, or the title.”
“We’re married!” he shouted, panic finally cracking through his executive bravado. “You can't just throw me out because of a fight with my mother!”
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“It wasn't a fight, Daniel,” I whispered, looking at the fresh, gold lock cylinder being fitted into my front door. “It was the moment I realized you would let anyone hurt me as long as it kept you comfortable.”
I hung up the phone and blocked his number.
