Imagine my surprise when I found an email from Stephanie, my ex-husband Matt’s new wife, with a bill attached. It was labeled “expenses caused by me”—the cheek of it left me stunned. But I wasn’t about to let such audacity pass without a reply.
Matt and I had been divorced for two years. I thought we had moved on peacefully. Yet here was Stephanie, claiming she was patching up the mess I’d supposedly left in Matt’s life.
Our differing paths made hindsight 20/20—it was evident why things fell apart between Matt and me. I sought partnership and equality, while Matt seemed to want a caretaker.
Not long after we married, reality hit home. His orderly bachelor pad had fooled me; I thought I had struck gold.
The reality was living together revealed a different Matt. It started small—wet towels on the floor, soon expanding into chaos all over the house. It seemed like our relationship was doomed to an endless cycle of apologies and repetition.
Before I knew it, Matt had lost his job, and his laid-back attitude insinuated it was no big deal. He half-heartedly tried to start a job from home, which rendered less than sufficient income. With him glued to video games, I realized I was managing not just my life, but his too.
I was booking his appointments, rewriting his resume, and giving simple reminders about his daily to-dos. Transforming into his life manager was not what I’d signed up for in marriage.
Our split seemed amicable until Stephanie’s presence complicates matters. She invited me to their wedding in an odd gesture of civility, which I graciously declined—it was a day meant for them, not for remembering past partners.
One random day, however, Stephanie reached out unexpectedly with unthinkable gall. Her favor sought details of my time with Matt to embellish her wedding vows. I politely rebuffed her bizarre request, foreseeing a queue of similarly eccentric demands.
Yet somehow, their matrimony would involve another improbable spectacle—a dramatic slideshow portraying Matt’s transformation, presumably marred by our past and brightened by his time with her.
Upon learning of the game’s final act from friends who attended, I thought, “Well, that’s that.” Surely, they’d carry on with their business and leave me be.
But just when I believed I’d seen the last of their shenanigans, here was Stephanie’s invoice, itemizing gravity-defying charges from my past “neglect,” as she saw it, summing over $5,000.
She ended her missive, attributing her investments in Matt as an attempt to “fix” him, imploring me to contribute. You could say I found humor in the madness—enough to cook up a reply of my own.
My retort was an invoice to equal their absurdity, broadcasting loud and clear my skepticism of her claim. Drafting up my own humorous counterlines, I made sure to illuminate Matt’s quirks that she presumably failed to tally.
I itemized costs of my contributions while Matt descended into his video game world, adding charges for the intangible emotional labor lost to his endless self-contact reminders. As my sign-off, I suggested prompt payment!
Backing words with action, I CCd a few friends for posterity. Their reception was satisfying, praising my response for its pointed resolve. Meanwhile, Stephanie’s attempts to defend were overshadowed by the playful absurdity of her initial missive.
Ultimately, it became clear she’d bitten off more than she’d chew. Both Matt and Stephanie found themselves the subjects of good-natured ribbing—the joke, a tale for future gatherings.
In the end, it was all just another chapter in the eccentric saga of being mixed up with Matt, one I’d file away with stories meant for laughter rather than lament.
