He said we’d be together forever, living in our bungalow by the lake with my garden growing in the front yard. He said a lot of things. He got the blonde. I got the bungalow. Personally, I’d rather have gotten the blonde in the divorce rather than a bungalow even the IRS won’t reposes. Ten years of back taxes and they still have no interest in the middle of nowhere.
Now, if this were a romantic comedy, he’d knock on the door, try to convince me to sell the land so that the corporation he works for can build a hydro dam, come to his senses by interacting with the locals, beg forgiveness and then we’d retire together to the bungalow. Instead I sold the land in half acre parcels to every Tom, Dick, and Jennifer from Greenpeace to PETA. That should keep him mired down in lawsuits for decades while I enjoy a flat in the city.