After my father-in-law’s funeral, my unemployed wife inherited $379 million. Out of nowhere, she asked for a divorce, saying, “You’re no longer of any use to me.” I responded, “Don’t end up regretting this.”

“I see,” I said, a strange calm settling over me. It was the calm of a man who watches a storm approach from behind a reinforced glass wall. “You’ve got it all figured out.”

“I do,” she smirked, tapping the document. “Sign it. I’m not asking for alimony. I just want you gone. Out of the house by Monday. I’ve already put a deposit on a property in Beverly Hills. A real house, not this… box.”

I picked up the pen. The plastic felt cold against my fingers. I looked at her, really looked at her, searching for the woman I had fallen in love with a decade ago. She was gone, consumed by the rot of entitlement.

“Don’t regret this later,” I said softly, a ghost of a smile playing on my lips.

She rolled her eyes. “Regret getting rid of a jobless loser? Trust me, honey, the only thing I’ll regret is not doing this sooner. Sign.”

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