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At eight months pregnant, I discovered my husband had completely drained my $48,000 emergency pregnancy fund. I checked his phone’s GPS and found out he was in Hawaii, chilling on a beach resort with his female co-workers. I booked a flight, flew straight there, and confronted him in front of them all. He just smirked, sipping a cocktail and saying: “A man has physiological needs; a pregnant wife at home is completely helpless to stop me.” He returned home days later sunburnt and laughing, but the locks were changed, and signed divorce papers were taped to the door of a house that now legally belonged to a complete stranger.

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Then I called Maya Patel, my attorney and a woman who enjoyed litigation more than most people enjoyed oxygen.

“Claire?” she answered, her voice thick with sleep.

“I need to sell my house,” I said, my voice as sharp as a diamond. “And I need you to prepare a divorce filing. Not a standard one. I want a full forensic audit attached.”

She was silent continue reading …

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