Till Death Do Us Part.

As Flynn’s health progressed, he began asking to go back to the beach house. It became apparent to me that he wanted to continue his newly adopted lifestyle. So I sat him down for a talk.

He was willing and ready to sign over our farms and vineyards to our children. It made sense because they were highly educated, savvy business people. And they were already heavily involved in the day-to-day running of the business. And he wanted me to have our family home, while he kept the beach house. Every other asset, he wanted to liquidate and split 50/50 between us. He also wanted an amicable divorce, he was out of love, and he wanted to be free.

“We are at the end of the road Isla, we’ve had a good run, but for me this is it. I want to live free, let me go,” He said.

My soul turned a few shades darker. I sat there looking at the man I had vowed to love till death. And yet here we were, death did not do us part. He was doing us part. But I had a better proposal, I still loved him. I wanted to cling to him, the safe place I’d known for years after my own parent had neglected me. So I let my vulnerability show, I let him see my heartbreak, I let the tears fall. But I did not beg him to stay. Instead I laid down my proposal.

“Looking at how great your bimbo was able to nurse your wounds, I think I am your best chance at good care. And if we divorce I will have absolutely no legal authority to help you when you find yourself in another medical trouble. And given your history, anything can happen. So let’s have our agreement written and witnessed by legal attorneys, but let’s keep our assets together in order not to weaken our estate, and let’s separate. But let’s stay legally married. That way I will still have authority to have a say in your care. If anybody has your best interest at heart, it is me,” I proposed.

I could see the wheels in his head turning. Arrogance has a way of blinding a person and making them feel invincible even.

“You would do that for me, Isla?” He asked surprised.

“Yes. I will,” I replied.

“One more thing then,” he added, “I don’t want to see you with another man.”

“Agreed,” I replied.

I had absolutely no interest in another man. It was Isla time. I was about to live life for me, on my terms. I had gone from the chaos of my mother’s house into Flynn’s life. And I had given my all to him and our children. It was time to give my all to me.

Our lawyers drew the legal documents. On paper our assets were separated, but in reality, it was still together. He had the beach house, I had the family home. And with the exception of the vineyards and farms, everything was divided up 50/50. We each were millionaires. But in reality we did not move our monies or liquidate any assets. Things stayed as they were. He even refused to file for separation.

My attorney advised I was being stupid, but I did not budge. I stayed resolved to marry my Flynn till death do us part.

I even went ahead and invited his bimbo for a sit down. And I enumerated to her all the ways Flynn had to be taken care of; his medications, his appointments, food, dos and don’ts. All of it. I very carefully laid it all out. She said she understood.

Flynn went on to have a religious ‘marriage’ to his bimbo three years later, in Nepal, officiated by a Hindu Sharma who said God’s law was above man’s law, especially when it came to marriage.  He said she was the best sex he’d had in years. So they became Mr. and Mrs. by God’s law. And I was Mrs. by the law of the land.

I did me. I took up yoga and mountaineering, and I traveled the world with the few friends I had left; they didn’t understand me, but they loved and accepted me nonetheless. And my children, I asked that they trust me and love me as I loved them. I carved out a new life for myself as a single woman, and began enjoying life again.

Flynn meandered his own relationship with our children. There were arguments, ultimatums and concessions. But eventually our family found a way to keep moving forward.

Flynn and I were together at our daughter’s wedding, husband and wife, mom and dad of the bride. Occasionally, Flynn would spend days and sometimes weeks at my house, those were days he needed a break from the foolishness he was living. On occasion he had the nerve to bring his bimbo, after all we were sister-wives. But most times he came alone. And we would go to dinner or the movies or visit our kids. He had the best of both worlds, he did not stop to even consider how I felt.

He wasn’t taking care of himself. And he had taken up smoking weed, and God knows what else. He gained weight. From my bedroom, I could hear him breathing in the guest room. We were still married, but we did not share a bed. My heart broke for him, but I knew when to mind my business.

Almost five years of living like this, I had a call at midnight on December 24, 2018. It was a doctor in Las Vegas. Flynn had had a massive heart attack at a casino, and he had suffered a brain hemorrhage. He was with his bimbo, but I was his emergency contact, his next of kin, his wife, so they called me.

I went to see him. And I made the decisions that needed to be made. The doctors did what they could, and then we airlifted him back home to Australia where he received hospice care for months. Months later, I signed documents for his breathing machine to be taken off. They pulled the plug, and he couldn’t breath on his own. My Flynn died. Till death do us part; death did us part.

One thing I learned in all my life – while enduring sexual assault from my mother’s husband, while budgeting on a tight income as a young wife, while enjoying life as a successful woman – was that sometimes you have to be agreeable to survive. If there is one thing  I knew how to do, it was to survive.

Easy people are not easy fools.

From the way Flynn was living, I knew it was only a matter of time before his health came tumbling down. When I checked off all the things his bimbo needed to do to ensure he was healthy, I knew she would do the exact opposite. She didn’t care about him, she wanted his money. She had a reputation, I had learned, as did her mother before her, I had done my homework.

 When I made my proposal to stay married and keep our assets separated on paper but not in reality, I was protecting my children’s inheritance, my wealth. But Flynn had his head too far up his ass to even begin to recognize I had  enough brain to play him.

The bimbo went to court. After all, her husband had died. My children and I met her there, after all they had lost a father and me, a husband. I told the court my husband and I had very much still been in love and married. All those days he spent at my house eating dinners I’d cooked, all those times we had gone to the movies and out to dinner while she was with him, we were married and in love. I said he and I had had an agreement that he could see other women, bimbo included, because it made him happy, and as a good wife, I wanted him to be happy.

The court found no evidence of me and Flynn’s separation, no matter how hard the bimbo and her mother argued. I took back the beach house and kept Flynn’s half of the assets in addition to mine.

It was a huge gamble I made. I could easily have died before him, but by having the asset separation on paper, I had protected my children. And all things being equal, I knew he was digging his own grave.

And that is how you fight back sometimes, when the cards are stacked against you, and you are too stubborn to concede defeat.

Till death do us part, dear Flynn. But the money and I did not part!