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.”

The ink on the death certificate was barely dry when the divorce papers hit the kitchen table. They landed with a heavy, final thud right next to my unemployment check—a stark, cruel juxtaposition that my wife, Kimberly, had undoubtedly orchestrated for maximum impact.

“I’m done, Benjamin,” she said, her voice devoid of any tremor, any grief. She was examining her manicure, a fresh coat of blood-red lacquer that looked violent against her pale skin. “I’m finally free from dead weight. You’re useless to me now.” The air in our cramped kitchen smelled of stale coffee and the overpowering, cloying scent of her Chanel No. 5—a scent she had started wearing only two days ago, immediately after her father’s funeral.

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