…”he’s going to help us figure out why you’ve been lying to me. You’ll tell him the truth. And then we’ll decide together what happens to the money.”
For two years, that tone would have worked. I’d have sat down. I’d have apologized.
But my therapist and I had practiced this exact moment. Not the book, not the money. Just the moment when I’d have to choose whether to sit down. So I didn’t. I said, “I’m going to step outside to make a phone call,” and I walked out the front door, with nothing but my keys and my wallet.
I called my therapist from my car, in a grocery store parking lot. She picked up on the first ring. I told her what happened. She didn’t sound surprised. “Tom, you’re doing great. First, are you safe? Second, I’d like to give you a number. It’s a hotline that helps men in relationships like yours. You are not the first man to call them.”
I sat in that parking lot for an hour and talked to a man named Carl, who’d been through something almost exactly like it. He helped me make a plan for that night. The first step was calling my old college roommate, Jake, who I hadn’t spoken to in two years.
Jake answered and said, “Dude. Where are you? Come over.” Just like that. I slept on his couch for three weeks.
Later I figured out how she got my therapist’s card. She’d gone through my car while I was asleep, and found an appointment reminder in the glove box. She’d been reading my emails for months, looking for a name.
With my therapist’s help, and a lawyer Carl recommended, I filed for divorce. We sold the house. I got my share, and I got my friends back. Jake’s wife says I’m officially part of their Friday night pizza tradition.
Last week I walked into a bookstore and bought a brand-new copy of Moby-Dick. This time I’m actually reading it. Chapter forty, if anyone’s curious. Turns out it’s pretty good when there’s nothing hidden inside.
