Divorcing Me Is A Federal Crime

During the holiday break, my wife insisted on dragging me to her high school reunion at the Oakridge Country Club.

By the time we pulled up, the valet line was already choked with leased G-Wagons, glossy Porsche Cayennes, and high-trim BMWs. I was driving my government-fleet Ford sedan—unassuming, nondescript, and completely invisible.

Before we even cleared the foyer, the whispers began cutting through the ambient jazz.

"I still can’t wrap my head around it. Sierra was the undisputed queen bee of our senior class.