The Million-Dollar Guilt Trip
When Fernanda Rodriguez divorced her now ex-husband, Raymond, she had been furious. Seventeen years had since passed, but her fury burned just as bright. She had been the one at fault—years of resentment led to years of belittling and eventually Raymond, with his honest heart and compassionate nature, couldn’t take it any longer—but that did little to quell the sour emotions that rotted deep within her. Fernanda wasn’t the type of woman to admit defeat easily. If ever.
When Raymond suggested they go to therapy, she’d simply responded with a flippant “therapy is for pathetic quacks like you, mi amor” and that was the end of it. Used to getting her way because of her exquisite yet intimidating beauty, she disregarded him when he told her he wanted a divorce. A divorce? You’re out of your mind, she’d spat at him. Your brain must be smaller than your penis if you think we’re getting a divorce. She had expected him to take what she dished out (pasta with a side of put downs, anyone?) and move on. It wasn’t until she received the official papers that she realized just how serious he was. Well, she would show him!
Her plan to strip him of his dignity and take him to the cleaners worked entirely in her favor. She took every last penny he had; his boat, their house, his car, even his golf clubs. It all became hers. Raymond had given it up easier than she’d predicted, letting her have whatever she wanted in lieu of on-going alimony payments—which, knowing Fernanda, were sure to be extortionate—but that hadn’t dampened her delight. She had won. And she would continue to win.
They had what would be their last face-to-face contact at their final divorce hearing; lukewarm water and lawyers all around.
“I don’t know how I ever fell in love with you,” Raymond said, saddened.
“Same to you, hijo de puta!”
“I’m truly sorry your life is so small.”
“Screw you. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll wish you’d never met me.”
“The thing is . . .