He tried to calm down and think through the situation. Fine. Eleanor had moved the money to another account. But it was still marital money, household savings. Maybe most of it came from her paycheck, but he had contributed too. Didn’t that mean he had a right to half?
Mark pulled out his phone and called his friend Steve, who worked as an attorney. “Steve, hey. I need some advice. Fast.” “Mark, good to hear from you,” Steve said. “What kind of advice? Work-related?”
“No. Family law. If a wife transfers all the money out of a joint household account into her personal account, can I make her put it back?” Steve let out a low whistle. “Wow. Okay. You two still legally married?”
“Yes.” “And whose name is the account in?” “Hers,” Mark admitted reluctantly.
“Then, my friend, technically she has the right to move money out of an account in her name, even if marital income went into it. Now, if you get divorced, you can try to argue during asset division that the money was marital property and ask for a share. But that’s slow, expensive, and far from guaranteed.”
“So there’s nothing I can do right now?” “You can try talking to her like an adult,” Steve said carefully. “Explain that the money is marital, that this isn’t a good way to handle things.” Then, after a pause: “What happened, exactly? Did you two have a blowup?”
“None of your business,” Mark snapped. “Thanks for the advice.” And he hung up. Talk to her like an adult. Right. After telling her the night before that from now on she was on her own and he was taking control of the money.
Eleanor was not likely to be in a cooperative mood. Mark got up and paced the room. His stomach cramped with hunger. He hadn’t eaten all morning, planning to grab something after the grocery run.
In the fridge he found leftovers from the night before: a piece of cheese and a couple of eggs. He made himself scrambled eggs out of habit, but after the first bite he lost interest. He sat at the kitchen table staring out the window. A school bus rolled by. A woman pushed a stroller down the sidewalk. A dog trotted after its owner.
Ordinary life went on while his own was coming apart. His phone rang again. This time it was an unfamiliar number. Mark answered cautiously. “Hello?”
“Mr. Parker?” a pleasant female voice said. “This is Capital Bank. Do you have a moment?” “Go ahead,” Mark said flatly. “We’re calling regarding your account ending in…” She read off the number.
“You had several unsuccessful purchase attempts today. Are you aware of the issue?” “Yes,” Mark said, feeling his anger rise again. “It’s being handled.”
“Understood. I also need to inform you that on your account ending in…” She read off the number of the household account. “A large transfer was made three days ago. We are required to notify clients of significant transactions. If you believe the transfer was unauthorized, you may visit a branch and file a report.”
“The transfer was authorized,” Mark cut in. “Thanks.” He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the couch. Even the bank seemed to be rubbing it in now, calling to notify him after the money had been gone for three days.
Three days. Which meant Eleanor had planned this. This wasn’t some emotional reaction to what he said the night before. She had calmly, methodically opened a new account, moved the money, and waited for him to walk into the trap.
And mixed in with his anger now was something else. Respect? No—more like unease. He didn’t recognize this version of his wife. The Eleanor he had lived with for sixteen years had been soft-spoken, accommodating, predictable. This Eleanor was capable of a cold, well-timed strike.
What else had she planned? Divorce? Asset division? The house was in her name too. It had come from her grandmother’s estate, and the down payment had come from money Eleanor brought in.
Technically Mark might be able to claim some interest, but he’d have to fight for it in court. Time, stress, legal fees. God, what a mess. He had thought this would be simple: put Eleanor in her place, remind her he was the man of the house, then later tell her he wanted a divorce. They’d split things reasonably, and he’d move on to Julie.
Start over with a younger, attractive woman who admired him, who didn’t remind him of promotions he never got or salaries he never earned. But instead Eleanor had gotten there first, and now he was the one on the losing end.
He went into the bedroom, opened the closet, pulled out a duffel bag, and started throwing in clothes:
