My husband thought he was taking a romantic trip to Paris with his 24-year-old girlfriend. He didn’t realize that by the time he landed, he would have no car, no money, and no valid passport.
The end of my marriage began with a phone call from a jeweler named Stefan. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds,” he chirped. “I’m just calling to confirm that the engraving on the platinum band should read ‘Forever Yours, M’? And that we are sticking with the Size 5?”
I looked down at my Size 7 ring finger. I looked at my wedding band, which was gold, not platinum. “Yes,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Size 5 is perfect. And make sure it’s ready for his trip on Friday.”
I hung up. My husband, David, had told me he was going to a “boring supply chain conference” in Chicago. A quick look at his hidden email folder—which I guessed the password to on the first try—confirmed he wasn’t going to Chicago. He was flying First Class to Paris with “Monique.”
I didn’t cry. I calculated.
The Departure
Friday morning, David kissed me on the forehead. “I’ll miss you, babe. I’ll call you when I get to the hotel.” “Have a safe flight,” I said, smiling. “Don’t worry about a thing here.”
As soon as his Uber turned the corner, I went to work.
Step 1: The Liquidation
David’s pride and joy was a vintage 1968 Ford Mustang. He loved that car more than he loved me. Crucially, the title was in both our names. I called a collector who had been pestering David to sell for years. “If you can bring cash and a tow truck in the next hour,” I told him, “it’s yours for $40,000.” It was $20,000 under market value. He was in my driveway in 45 minutes. I signed the title, took the cash, and deposited it into a new account solely in my name.
Step 2: The Freeze
While David was 30,000 feet over the Atlantic, I called the credit card companies. Since I was the primary account holder on our Amex Platinum—the one he planned to use for the Ritz Paris and Monique’s shopping spree—I reported the card lost. “Please cancel it immediately,” I said. “Send a replacement to the home address in 3-5 business days.” Status: Declined.
Step 3: The “Stolen” Passport
This was the nuclear option. I knew David kept his passport in the home safe until he traveled. I called the State Department’s automated line and reported his passport as stolen two hours before his flight took off. I claimed I thought it was missing from the house and wanted to be safe. In the international database, that little book in his pocket was now a red flag.
The Arrival
Here is how it played out, according to the voicemails he left me.
David and Monique landed at Charles de Gaulle. They walked up to customs. Monique went through the EU line without issue. David handed his passport to the French border agent. The agent scanned it. A red light flashed. “Sir, this passport has been reported stolen by the US government.”
David argued. He yelled. But you don’t argue with border control. He was detained in a holding room. He tried to pay for a lawyer, but his credit card was declined. He tried to call Monique, but she was already in the baggage claim. When she realized his cards weren’t working and he was likely getting deported, she didn’t wait. She met a nice guy in the taxi line and went to the hotel without him.
The Call
My phone rang at 3:00 AM. It was David, using his one phone call from detention. “Claire! My passport is flagged! My cards are frozen! I’m stuck in a cell in Paris! What is going on?”
“Oh, hi honey,” I answered, sipping wine. “I couldn’t find your passport in the safe, so I reported it stolen to protect us. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“You reported it stolen while I was holding it?!” he screamed. “And the credit card?”
“Fraud protection,” I lied. “Oh, and by the way, I sold the Mustang.”
“You what?”
“I sold the Mustang. I needed the money for the retainer.”
“Retainer for what?”
“My divorce lawyer. He’s serving you the papers at the airport when they deport you back here tomorrow. Don’t worry, I won’t be at the house. I changed the locks.”
The Aftermath
David was put on the next flight back to the US. He arrived exhausted, furious, and single. Monique blocked his number. Because I had filed for divorce before he returned, the $40,000 from the car sale was legally considered a marital asset used for “legal defense,” so I didn’t have to give it back.
He wanted a Parisian romance. He got a holding cell and a Greyhound bus ride to his mother’s house. Karma isn’t just a concept; sometimes, it’s a passport scanner.
