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(a) In the event SIMON gets married to an individual (“SPOUSE”), the proceeds of this trust may not be spent in any way by or for the benefit of SPOUSE for a period of ten (10) years following the first day of SIMON’s marriage to SPOUSE. This restriction includes, but is not limited to, the following: (1) expenditures on anything that would jointly benefit both SIMON and SPOUSE, including but not limited to...
What an asshole, to do that to Simon against his wishes. Give him the money or don’t. But to do what he did, to hog-tie Simon like that, to put his foot on the chest of Simon’s marriage before it even starts? Talk about emasculating.
And, of course, there’s this:
In and only in the event that SIMON and SPOUSE remain married for the period of ten (10) years, and no petition for dissolution of marriage has been filed by either SIMON or SPOUSE within that time, the restriction on the expenditure of proceeds in paragraph (a) above shall cease to operate.
If you stay married to Simon for ten years like a good girl, “spouse,” and if nobody’s even filed for divorce within those ten years, “spouse,” then you can put your greedy, grimy hands on the money. Because then you’ll have earned it, “spouse.”
Why so cynical, Teddy? Not every woman marries for money.
Only some do.
—
In the corner of the room, the printer starts grinding and spitting out the pages of the trust. My phone rings, a FaceTime call from my nieces, the M&Ms, Mariah and Macy. I throw in my AirPods so the noise won’t awaken Simon.
When I answer, it’s only Mariah, the thirteen-year-old, on the call. As best as I can make out through the grainy image, she doesn’t look happy. No one can perfect a frown better than a thirteen-year-old girl.
“Hi, pumpkin!” I say, trying to keep my voice down, closing the office door.
“It happened,” she says.
It— Oh, right.
“Okay. Well, okay. We knew this would be coming, right?”
She nods, but her face wrinkles into a grimace.
“It’s okay, Mariah, it’s normal, perfectly normal. You put a pad on?”
She nods her head, tears falling. It’s emotional enough, getting your period the first time; not having your mother around, and having all that come back, too, doubles the fun.
“Great! So listen, did you talk to your dad?”
“No!” she spits out.
“Well, honey, you can’t keep this from your father. He knows it’s coming, too.”
Yes, her father, my ex-brother-in-law, Adam, knows that adolescent girls get their period. And without a wife, without a woman in the home, he’s been terrified of this moment. Men have no clue about the female anatomy.
“When are you... when are you coming?” she manages.
“I’ll come this weekend, honey, okay? I’ll come Friday night and stay the weekend.”
“Okay,” she whines, “but when are you coming for good?”
Oh, that. “November,” I say. “Remember, I told you—”
“But November’s over two months away!”
I take a breath. November’s more than two months away, yes, but it feels like it’s coming quickly.
“Mariah, honey, I will be here anytime you want to call me between now and November. I’ll come see you this weekend. I’ll spend the whole weekend. We’ll get milkshakes at that place you like.”
“Barton’s.”
“Barton’s. It’ll be fun. Really,” I say, “November will be here before you know it.”
