Chapter 2
Mom was waiting on the porch with a box in her arms.
She'd already packed up her important documents—birth certificates, insurance papers, the deed to Grandpa's old farmhouse up in the hills.
The moment I pulled into the driveway, she was already walking to the car, jaw set, eyes dry.
This was not the same woman who'd spent decades being too nice, too forgiving, too willing to swallow her pride for the sake of "keeping the peace."
This Mom had drowned. This Mom had come back angry.
"Did you cry yet?" she asked, tossing the box in the back seat.
"I'm done crying."
"Good. Crying's for the old us." She slid into the passenger seat. "Drive to the bank first. We need to move money before that bastard catches on."
In my past life, I'd been financially blind. Derek handled everything—the accounts, the investments, the property. He told me it was "easier that way." I believed him because I was an idiot who thought love meant trust.
But Mom, reborn and furious, had spent the early morning hours going through every document she could find.
"I pulled up the joint account on my phone," she said, scrolling. "There's $280,000 in savings. His business account has more, but we can't touch that—it's in the company's name. However." She held up a finger. "The beach house is in both your names. So is the SUV. And there's a brokerage account he probably forgot you're listed on. $95,000."
"How do you know all this?"
"Because in my past life, after you died, before the water got me, I spent my last minutes in that flooded house going through the papers floating around me." Her voice was steady, but her eyes were wet. "I read every lie he ever told you, baby. Every account, every hidden credit card statement. It was all just—floating there. Like the universe wanted me to see it."
My throat tightened. But I kept driving.
At the bank, I transferred $140,000—exactly half the joint account—into a new account under my name only. Not a penny more. I wanted it clean, legal, and airtight.
Then I liquidated the brokerage account. $95,000, wired to my new account.
Next stop: a lawyer. Not just any lawyer—Mom had already called ahead. An old friend from her church group, a divorce attorney named Ruth Castillo, agreed to see us immediately.
Ruth was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with reading glasses perched on her nose and a reputation for gutting cheating husbands in court.
I laid out the evidence. Screenshots of texts between Derek and Megan that I'd found months ago but had been too afraid to confront. Bank statements showing payments to a prenatal clinic under Megan's name. A hotel receipt from Valentine's Day—when he told me he was at a conference in Dallas.
Ruth's expression didn't change once. She'd seen worse.
"I can file today," she said. "Given the infidelity and financial evidence, you'll get the house, the car, and at least sixty percent of marital assets. But court dates take weeks."
"I don't have weeks. I have six days."
Ruth raised an eyebrow.
Mom leaned forward. "Ruth, there's a major storm coming. Category 6. It's going to hit this coast in less than a week. We need everything locked down before then."
Ruth looked skeptical—the weather forecast was still calling it a minor tropical system—but Mom's intensity convinced her to expedite.
"I'll draft emergency papers. If he signs voluntarily, this is done in 48 hours."
Back in the car, I called Derek.
He picked up sounding annoyed. "What is it, Liv? I'm in a meeting."
Translation: He was with Megan.
"I know about Megan. I know about the baby. I have the texts, the hotel receipts, and the clinic payments. Sign the divorce papers Ruth Castillo sends you today, or I forward everything to your business partners, your clients, and your mother."
Dead silence.
Then: "You're bluffing."
"Try me. You have 24 hours. Oh, and Derek? When that satisfactory little world of yours falls apart, remember—you did this to yourself."
I hung up. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
Mom looked at me, eyes shining. "That's my girl."
But we weren't done. Not even close. Because Derek was a coward, and cowards always sign when cornered.
And once he did, I needed that farmhouse ready.
Because in five days, the ocean was going to rise—and I needed to be on high ground when it did.
---
She'd already packed up her important documents—birth certificates, insurance papers, the deed to Grandpa's old farmhouse up in the hills.
The moment I pulled into the driveway, she was already walking to the car, jaw set, eyes dry.
This was not the same woman who'd spent decades being too nice, too forgiving, too willing to swallow her pride for the sake of "keeping the peace."
This Mom had drowned. This Mom had come back angry.
"Did you cry yet?" she asked, tossing the box in the back seat.
"I'm done crying."
"Good. Crying's for the old us." She slid into the passenger seat. "Drive to the bank first. We need to move money before that bastard catches on."
In my past life, I'd been financially blind. Derek handled everything—the accounts, the investments, the property. He told me it was "easier that way." I believed him because I was an idiot who thought love meant trust.
But Mom, reborn and furious, had spent the early morning hours going through every document she could find.
"I pulled up the joint account on my phone," she said, scrolling. "There's $280,000 in savings. His business account has more, but we can't touch that—it's in the company's name. However." She held up a finger. "The beach house is in both your names. So is the SUV. And there's a brokerage account he probably forgot you're listed on. $95,000."
"How do you know all this?"
"Because in my past life, after you died, before the water got me, I spent my last minutes in that flooded house going through the papers floating around me." Her voice was steady, but her eyes were wet. "I read every lie he ever told you, baby. Every account, every hidden credit card statement. It was all just—floating there. Like the universe wanted me to see it."
My throat tightened. But I kept driving.
At the bank, I transferred $140,000—exactly half the joint account—into a new account under my name only. Not a penny more. I wanted it clean, legal, and airtight.
Then I liquidated the brokerage account. $95,000, wired to my new account.
Next stop: a lawyer. Not just any lawyer—Mom had already called ahead. An old friend from her church group, a divorce attorney named Ruth Castillo, agreed to see us immediately.
Ruth was a no-nonsense woman in her fifties with reading glasses perched on her nose and a reputation for gutting cheating husbands in court.
I laid out the evidence. Screenshots of texts between Derek and Megan that I'd found months ago but had been too afraid to confront. Bank statements showing payments to a prenatal clinic under Megan's name. A hotel receipt from Valentine's Day—when he told me he was at a conference in Dallas.
Ruth's expression didn't change once. She'd seen worse.
"I can file today," she said. "Given the infidelity and financial evidence, you'll get the house, the car, and at least sixty percent of marital assets. But court dates take weeks."
"I don't have weeks. I have six days."
Ruth raised an eyebrow.
Mom leaned forward. "Ruth, there's a major storm coming. Category 6. It's going to hit this coast in less than a week. We need everything locked down before then."
Ruth looked skeptical—the weather forecast was still calling it a minor tropical system—but Mom's intensity convinced her to expedite.
"I'll draft emergency papers. If he signs voluntarily, this is done in 48 hours."
Back in the car, I called Derek.
He picked up sounding annoyed. "What is it, Liv? I'm in a meeting."
Translation: He was with Megan.
"I know about Megan. I know about the baby. I have the texts, the hotel receipts, and the clinic payments. Sign the divorce papers Ruth Castillo sends you today, or I forward everything to your business partners, your clients, and your mother."
Dead silence.
Then: "You're bluffing."
"Try me. You have 24 hours. Oh, and Derek? When that satisfactory little world of yours falls apart, remember—you did this to yourself."
I hung up. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my teeth.
Mom looked at me, eyes shining. "That's my girl."
But we weren't done. Not even close. Because Derek was a coward, and cowards always sign when cornered.
And once he did, I needed that farmhouse ready.
Because in five days, the ocean was going to rise—and I needed to be on high ground when it did.
---