The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund by Jill Kargman Page A

entitled to what I ended up scoring: our beloved apartment.
    Tim, out of guilt, gave me the whole thing and agreed to pay the maintenance, but because it was well beyond the money stipulated by our contract, that was all I’d get. Child support for Miles, sure, but good-bye Bergdorf’s charge card; adios clubs, even David Barton gym membership. My lawyer said I could have probably fought for some of these, but I just wanted the whole thing done. I didn’t want to give Sherry Von any more ammo—I was sure she was steaming I got the apartment, since she’d been the one who’d found it for us; it had once belonged to a prominent socialite she knew from Locust Valley. And I loved it. I had decorated it myself, and it was a constant in Miles’s changing life. And since Tim was always away so much, anyway, we were both used to it being spacious for the two of us, but always cozy, with the third bedroom functioning as a TV and toy pit with Miles’s art station and an easel. Home was everything to me, especially because I had grown more into a nester than ever, and I wanted one touchstone that would remain sacred. Luckily Tim didn’t fight me on it.
    But as for all those other perks of being a hedgie wife, I never really was so obsessed with all that excess. Did I really need to call one of Tim’s assistants to get theater tickets or make that reservation? I’d call myself, so what. I was almost relieved to eliminate the middleman. And, sure, on a rainy day it was great to have a driver, but sometimes it was fun to get soaked. I loved my walks. Walking in New York is one of my greatest pastimes, and so many wealthy wives miss out on that pleasure. He could keep it all. I had my pride and wasn’t going to beg for more, even if it was my due.
    When Tim and I finally entered the offices, each flanked by our lawyers, we briefly locked eyes. I looked down quickly to try not to cry. I soberly stared at the dotted line, and as the ball rolled through the ink and onto the paper, I realized the shock had subsided and clarity was taking its place through closure.
    After he signed, my lawyer simply said, “Okay, then.”
    That was it. A decade together and a Tiffany fountain pen pierced our matrimony like a silver scythe.
    â€œHoll—”
    I looked at him, his lips folded together in a stern grimace.
    â€œSorry.”
    Saying nothing, I blinked back tears as I opened the door and left.
    My dad came back to visit for a couple days and we stayed up through the night as we both cried, me for my marriage, he for my mom, for the past, for easier times. I told him how even when I was fighting to swim back to the shore of stability, after ten strokes I’d realize the forceful current of grief had dragged me twenty strokes farther out to sea. I was weary and thought I’d drown.
    â€œHoney, remember the utter despair you felt after Mom died?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou thought you could never function again in the world without her. And it was hard, terribly hard, for all of us, but we soldiered on. You can do it, you will do it. Not just for Miles, but also yourself. You’re young, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you need to be strong.”
    Leave it to dads to hand out the tough love. He was right; I could wallow in self-pitying misery till the Crypt Keeper giggled in my face with his sharpened sickle or I could buck up and jump back into life. I only wished my mom was there to help me through this second dark chapter.
    But as time passed, when I breathed in and out, it took less effort. It used to be that when my alarm went off, I’d immediately feel a two-ton weight upon my chest. But then, little by little, it was one ton. And then half. And less. Until slowly I became more anesthetized to the gut-churning pain. Sheer agony became blunt pain became discomfort. And soon enough discomfort morphed into tolerance for my situation. And once I