My car is hot and the weeds at home hang heavy on my shoulders. It’s like that Fischer Price toy: you hit one plastic gopher with a mallet and another pops up a different hole. The weeds have conquered the yard while I frantically put out forest fires at work and home and work and home. My mind hasn’t worked well in a long time. Did it ever? Maybe this is normal. I tell myself to man up. These are just the pedestrian vicissitudes of a father-lawyer-husband. But the weeds mock my pep talk. Like that character in a book who cheats death and then death finds him. “Your days are numbered. You pretend to control it all, but the weeds don’t lie.” And why can’t I concentrate anymore? I put my client files in the back of my car, its AC long since failed, and head back to the office from court, weeds hanging heavy on my shoulders.

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He deferred to her, listening intently as she spoke. When she cried, his eyes were pained and he placed his hand on her back reassuringly.

It was a second marriage for both. Her ex had some undisclosed tax shenanigans that pre-dated the divorce. To make matters complicated, while they were still married but separated, husband #1 accepted service of important tax notices for his estranged wife (“It’ll go away if I ignore it, right?”). The divorce is finalized, years pass, and she remarries.

Then the tax man called. It’s a big number.

No scowls, no sidelong stares, no stiffly raised eyebrows from husband #2. This is not a “let’s march you down to the principal’s office, young lady” sort of visit. He gently passes her the box of Kleenex on my conference table. She hadn’t known she was bringing a financial demon into the marriage, but now through tears she asks: “Should I get a divorce?”

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