StoriesBlog I sat in my car, looking at our home. The Colonial with white columns I fell in love with fourteen years ago. The azalea bushes I planted. The porch where we used to sit and drink wine before Marshall got too busy. I have built a life here. A good life.
And Marshall is ready to throw it away for a 28-year-old who probably thinks Nashville is the capital of Tennessee. We will see about that. I unlocked the front door. Everything was exactly as I left it Saturday morning. My coffee mug in the sink, the book on the coffee table, the throw blanket on the couch. Home.
Except it didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like a museum exhibit. I poured wine—the expensive Pinot Noir Marshall bought for a dinner party—and sat at the kitchen table with my laptop. I had work to do, research to conduct, and a strategy to develop. In three days, I have a consultation with Victoria Blackwell. I am walking in with enough evidence to bury Marshall Hawthorne so deep he will need a mining team to find his way out.
The best part? He has no idea it’s coming. He thinks he has until January. He thinks he is in control. Marshall Hawthorne is about to learn the most important lesson of his life: Never underestimate the woman you betrayed, especially when that woman makes her living turning dreams into reality and nightmares into unforgettable events.
Wednesday morning, I woke at 6 a.m., and for three seconds, I forgot my entire life was a lie. Then reality crashed back. Marshall thinks I am in Charleston. Marshall is at his secret apartment with Lila. Marshall has been planning to leave me for two years. I should feel devastated.
Instead, I felt remarkably clear-headed. I made coffee and checked emails. Three divorce attorneys had already responded. All could see me this week. Victoria Blackwell’s office had a cancellation for Friday afternoon at 3 p.m. Fortuitous timing.
I confirmed the appointments. Victoria Blackwell on Friday. James Patterson at Patterson & Associates Thursday morning. Linda Walsh at Westwood Family Law Thursday afternoon. Then I texted Marshall: “Sorry. Fell asleep so early. Long day. Conference is great. Miss you too. See you tomorrow afternoon.”
His response came within 30 seconds.
“No worries,” Marshall wrote. “Glad you’re having a good time. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you.” The hypocrisy is almost impressive. I spent Wednesday working. I had three client meetings—virtual, thankfully. Between meetings, I researched Tennessee divorce law. I looked up community property versus equitable distribution.
I studied how courts view dissipation of marital assets. What happens when one spouse uses joint funds to finance an affair? Turns out, judges really don’t like that. Tennessee has fault-based divorce. Adultery absolutely affects how assets get divided. Marshall has made every possible mistake.
He used joint funds for his affair. He documented it all on shared accounts. He confessed his plans in text messages. He bought expensive gifts for his girlfriend on our credit card. Marshall Hawthorne, brilliant orthopedic surgeon, is an absolute moron at infidelity. By Wednesday evening, I had compiled 47 pages of evidence.
It was meticulously organized. Labeled, dated, cross-referenced. Bank statements. Screenshots. Photos. Hotel receipts. Restaurant charges. The Tiffany receipt. Everything. I saved it to three cloud storage services and emailed copies to myself. Then I printed two physical copies. One for my office. One for a safety deposit box Marshall doesn’t know exists.
Thursday morning, I was up at 5 a.m. The first attorney consultation was at 9. I dressed carefully: Navy Brooks Brothers pantsuit, cream silk blouse, pearls. Professional. Put together. The look says, “successful businesswoman who deserves respect,” not “falling apart and desperate.”
James Patterson’s office is in the Gulch. Ironically, probably near Marshall’s love nest. It was all glass and chrome, very expensive-looking. James Patterson is in his mid-50s with an expensive suit and a firm handshake. It was the kind of smile that costs $300 an hour.
“Mrs. Hawthorne,” he said, “I understand you’re dealing with an urgent situation.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I replied. I slid my 47-page document across his desk. His eyebrows rose as he flipped through the pages. Then they rose higher. Then they practically disappeared.
“This is comprehensive,” he noted.
“I’m an event planner. Organization is kind of my thing,” I said.
“I can see that.” He reached the Tiffany receipt, and his mouth twitched. “Mrs. Hawthorne, in 23 years of practicing family law, I have never seen a case this well documented on day one.”
“Is that good?”
“Very good. For you. Less good for your husband,” he said.
I told him everything. The airport. The flowers. The embrace. The systematic documentation.
“And your husband doesn’t know you know?” he asked.
“He thinks I’m in Charleston until this afternoon. He thinks everything is fine.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” He leaned back. “Tennessee is an equitable distribution state. But in cases where one spouse dissipated marital assets to finance an affair, courts factor that in.”
“He used joint funds for hotels, dinners, jewelry for his mistress. That’s dissipation,” I said. “What does that mean for me?”
“You have an excellent case for more than 50% of marital assets. We can argue he owes you reimbursement. If he fights you, we have enough ammunition to bury him,” James explained.
Validation flooded through me.
“However, I notice you don’t have children,” he added. “That simplifies things. No custody battles. We’re looking at asset division and possibly alimony.”
“I own my own business. Elegance Events. Last year, I cleared $230,000 in profit,” I stated.
His eyebrows rose. “And your husband’s income?”
“Orthopedic surgeon. Around $450,000 annually, plus bonuses.”
“So there’s a disparity, but not massive. You’re both high earners. That works in your favor. You’re not financially dependent. That narrative plays well.”
We talked strategy, timeline, and expectations. He explained that Tennessee requires grounds for divorce, and adultery qualifies. He mentioned temporary injunctions to prevent draining accounts, discovery, depositions, and a potential trial.
“But honestly,” he said, “with evidence like this, most defendants settle. Going to trial means this becomes public record. His affair, his spending, all of it. Most professionals want to avoid that.”
Next was Linda Walsh at Westwood Family Law. Her office was in Green Hills. Less flashy, more intimidating. Linda Walsh is tiny, in her early 60s. She looks like someone’s grandmother but has shark eyes. She flipped through my documentation at lightning speed.
When she was finished, she looked up. “Do you want to hurt him, or do you want to win?”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“Hurting him feels good in the moment. Winning means you get what you deserve and move on intact. Both are valid, but they require different strategies.”
“I want to win,” I said. “But if hurting him is part of winning, I’m okay with that.”
Linda Walsh smiled. It was terrifying. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”
She was more aggressive than James Patterson. She was direct about what we could demand and prove. “Leverage the affair evidence. Freeze joint accounts. Hire a forensic accountant to trace every dollar Marshall spent on Lila.”
“Men like your husband,” she continued. “Successful. Arrogant. Convinced they’re smarter than everyone. They make mistakes. You’ve documented all of them beautifully.”
“How far do you want to take this?” she asked.
“As far as I need to.”
“Good answer.”
By 2 p.m., I had one more stop: the bank. I walked into First Tennessee Bank on West End and asked about our accounts. Sandra, the banker who has helped us for years, greeted me warmly.
“Mrs. Hawthorne, what can I do for you?”
“I need to understand our accounts. I’m concerned about security.”
Over 45 minutes, I learned exactly what we have everywhere. Withdrawal limits. Protections to prevent one spouse from draining accounts. Turns out, not many protections exist. Marshall could theoretically withdraw everything tomorrow.
“Is there a way to require dual authorization for large withdrawals?” I asked.
“Not on standard joint accounts,” Sandra replied. “However, if you’re concerned, you could open a separate account in just your name and transfer your portion there.”
“And if my husband asks?”
Sandra gave me a look, suggesting she has seen this movie before. “Your financial security is important, Mrs. Hawthorne. You have every right to protect your assets.”
I didn’t move money yet. That would tip Marshall off. But I made a note of everything. I also opened a new business account for Elegance Events, in just my name, that Marshall has no access to and no knowledge of—just in case. By 3:45, according to my fake itinerary, my flight from Charleston was landing at 4:30.
I drove to the airport and parked where my car had been sitting since Tuesday. At 4:15, I texted Marshall.
“Just landed,” I wrote. “Grabbing my bag and heading home. See you soon.”
“Great,” he replied. “I’ll be home around 6. Want me to pick up dinner?”
“That would be amazing. I’m exhausted.”
“Thai food from that place you like?”
“Perfect.”
Look at us. The perfect couple coordinating dinner. It would be sweet if it weren’t completely hollow. I drove home, following the route from the airport. I pulled into our driveway at 5:20. The house was empty.
I walked through with new eyes, seeing everything differently. I tried to remember the last time Marshall and I were intimate. Six months? Eight? Longer? I had convinced myself it was normal. We were busy, in our 40s, married fourteen years. Now I realize things weren’t cooling off for Marshall. He was just getting his needs met elsewhere.
I pulled out my phone. Tomorrow, Friday the 15th, I have my consultation with Victoria Blackwell at 3 p.m. The hospital gala is December 14th. And Marshall plans to ask for a divorce in January, after I have done all the emotional labor of making Christmas perfect. Well, I have news for Marshall Hawthorne. I am not waiting until January.