Before I knew what hit me, Tom was my husband—the adoptive father of my children, and a sought-after dealmaker in our affluent community. Tom was a risk-taker. He had a certain style. An iconoclast, he did things his way or not at all. His charm and the twinkle in his open gaze drew people of every ilk to his side. His brilliance lay in understanding exactly what people desired most, then somehow making those desires manifest. His downfall—and mine, it would turn out—lay in that very thing.

We met shortly after I had uprooted my two young children and moved to New Haven to study law. Tom answered a personal ad I placed in the Advocate seeking a virtual Renaissance man: “confident but not arrogant, worldly but down-to-earth, intellectual but artistic, at home in a suit or an old pair of jeans, passionate about something, and entirely imperfect.” How could I have known how completely he would check that list?

My mailbox overflowed with entreaties penned by an impressive lot: doctors, lawyers, an advertising executive, a documentary filmmaker, a civil rights activist. I met up with a choice few, and though not the best-looking, most accomplished, or wealthiest, the sheer intensity of his presence ultimately set Tom apart from the others.

My first impression of Tom almost impelled me to turn around and drive back home. His wavy hair was neatly parted and combed, and his substantial athletic frame was attired in a business-casual button-down shirt and slacks, Italian loafers on his feet. No hint of the rock-and-roll, lead-guitar bad boy look that quickened my pulse. My manners prevailed, though I fully intended to end the date after a single chardonnay at the trendy, upscale bar he had chosen. To my surprise, not only did he dazzle me into dining with him, but afterward we explored the city, pitched in fervent conversation until the wee hours of morning.

Over the following months Tom wooed me mercilessly, gradually revealing the many ways he intended to enhance my life. With laser focus he wore down my efforts to hold him slightly at bay. I discovered he could design anything, build anything, fix anything. He was a trained chef. He could sing like an angel, make elaborate stained glass windows, coach my kids’ sports teams and tutor them in math. He could even fly a plane. He felt wholly at ease whipping up a torte and hosting my law school study group. Or he could be persuaded to join an R&B band onstage at the downtown Blues Cafe on a Saturday night, where the church ladies exclaimed how he sounded like Aaron Neville and demanded encores. At home, he won over my daughter first, and eventually became the dad my son had never known.

Despite his superpowers, I managed to maintain a thin partition between us. With a history of past betrayals, I let more than ten years pass before I acted on his oft repeated appeals to wed. In the meantime, Tom bumped against my barricades, alternating between vigorous pursuit and stoical lying in wait. It took years of rabbits pulled from hats, and ceaseless attention to my every want and need for Tom to finally number me among his believers.

Now to be sure, this man was not a saint, much as he enjoyed cultivating that image. He gave me more than a few reasons to question the prospect of entering into marriage. Not long into our relationship, we purchased a house in the city and attempted to blend our families. Those early times could truly be labeled “days of wine and roses”. Life was good, the cellar was stocked, and Tom actually brought me a dozen long-stemmed blooms every single week we lived together in our rambling Dutch Colonial overlooking the park.

A few idyllic months passed before Tom took to making arbitrary, but ironclad rules for my young children. He forbade them to take their shoes off in the living room, ranting when they inevitably forgot. He required them to give over everything they owned when his children came to stay, despite his daughter’s proclivity for breaking every possession my kids held dear. Once, upon discovering my daughter had hidden the delicate dollhouse furniture she had saved her babysitting money to buy, he burst into the room where she lay sleeping. He lifted up the foot of her bed high enough to leave holes in the wood plank floor when he abruptly released it.

In response to his hurtful antics I would withdraw into myself. Tom could not tolerate that silence. He followed me from room to room, growing ever more agitated, until he would block the door with his substantial bulk and talk at me until I reached a state of near catatonia. He once—and only once—laid his hands on me in frustration.

Eventually, I made a break and moved into my own cottage on the other side of town. But whenever I needed a strong back or a warm heart, Tom was just a phone call away. I once planned a garden party and asked him to move my cast iron lawn furniture out of storage. Upon completing the task, he noted my grass had gone brown from neglect. He returned an hour later with rolls of sod and laid down perfect green rows, rendering a perfect setting for the evening’s soiree.

I did not invite him to the party.

Tom waited me out. And one day it all paid off. I woke one ordinary Thursday knowing the time had come to accept our inevitable, intertwined fate. Maybe it had something to do with compunction, a much-needed back operation, and which of us carried health insurance. But I found no call to put that center stage. I dialed Tom’s number, and when he answered in his sleepy morning voice, I suggested we marry later in the day. Sounding bewildered, he blurted out he was already scheduled to attend an important meeting. So we wed at City Hall the following afternoon.

Tom went on to make a remarkable recovery from a difficult spinal surgery, and to my surprise, we were blessed with three or four years of flat-out marital bliss. Our kids away at school, we savored lazy days lounging in our king-size bed. We enjoyed sumptuous meals, packing on the pounds without a care in the world. We bought a too-fancy house and a couple of too-fancy cars. We took European vacations, and entertained our friends with lavish parties. We leased apartments for the children and paid their tuition at good colleges.

When my daughter returned home with her masters degree, I opened a business and gave her an ownership share. It made little money in the early years, so I made regular cash infusions, ensuring my girl went home each week with a generous paycheck. The parties and vacations continued, and we wanted for nothing.

A prudent woman might have paused to ponder what kept the merry-go-round spinning. I simply enjoyed the ride. Right up until the day the sheriff knocked on the door and it became all too clear the brass ring would remain forever out of reach.

The too-fancy house went into foreclosure. The too-fancy cars were sold to appease the IRS. My business suffered as word of Tom’s impending incarceration became public knowledge. We sold what was left, scraping together just enough cash to pay the lawyers.

My children were outraged that Tom had pulled the fine oriental rug out from under our pedicured feet. He had brought shame to the family. He had abused our hard-won trust and left us foundering alone to face the real world. He thoughtlessly abandoned us to go and serve his time in federal prison.

Tom said not a word in his own defense. He had made his choices. And I was sure he was getting what he so richly deserved. I refused to make the long drive on visiting days. I re-lived every slight, every pain, every outrage I had ever suffered at his hand. I filed for divorce.

And then I remembered the sod.

January 20, 2025

About the writer

Suzanne Miller is a flash fiction/essay writer, recently retired and living on the peaceful Connecticut shoreline. Suzanne left a career as a child-protection attorney to pursue more uplifting work with children: operating a nature-based early learning center in the woods. She is using her newfound time and freedom playing badminton with her grandchildren, and polishing up her lifetime of stories. Most recently she has published pieces in CafeLit, The Rumen, Krazines/Moss Piglet, Wild Greens and surely magazine. Suzanne is also a Writer Advice’s 2024 Microfiction Contest winner. You can link to her Substack account “Flash Light” at https://substack.com/@suzesq/posts.