My kids cheered as my wife slammed divorce papers onto the top of my retirement cake. I signed them, stood up, and within minutes, she was the one begging me not to leave.

I recapped the pen.

“You just triggered clause fourteen-B.”

For a moment she seemed unsure. Then the doubt vanished, replaced by contempt.

“There is no prenup,” she whispered. “Jameson went through everything. I know exactly what we own.”

That, right there, was the problem.

She thought she knew.

I straightened, gave the room a nod as if someone had delivered a mildly offensive toast at Thanksgiving, and stepped away from the cake.

I did not shout. I did not break anything. I did not ask how long she had been planning this, or why my children were so eager to dance on my grave before I was even cold.

I simply walked toward the doors.

The confetti crunched beneath my dress shoes.

I was nearly out when Brandon stepped directly into my path.

He had a tumbler of scotch in one hand and the bloated confidence of a man who thought he was already rich in the other. His suit was tight across the shoulders, the kind of European-cut fantasy he favored to look important. Up close, it made him look desperate.

“Where do you think you’re going, Dad?”

“Out,” I said.