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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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the tail-lights of his car fading into the rainy suburban night, I didn’t cry. Instead, I felt a familiar, cold sensation settle behind my ribs. It was the same feeling I used to get when a client’s books didn’t balance—the thrill of the hunt. Daniel had forgotten one crucial detail: before I was a ‘hormonal’ wife, I was a senior forensic accountant continue reading …

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