Earlier in the day on December 17, 2016, we both learned that the Domestic Violence IV charge against Demi was to be dropped by the county prosecutor. This was to be our last full day in Puerto Vallarta. We explored the downtown and returned to our hotel with plenty of time for sun on the beach. While the boys played in the surf, I went to get a couple of drinks for Demi and me. When I returned, I found her texting a sexy photo of her legs and feet on the lounge chair. With waves crashing, she didn’t hear me come up behind her. Horrified, I saw her follow the photo with the text, “Come visit me. Start with my toes.”
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
After spending eight days in Mexico as a family, we had begun having a good time together. She had just ruined it.
“That wasn’t for your eyes,” she said in a calm and measured voice.
I stormed off.
In that instant, everything became clear: she was living a truly double life. I knew she’d been having an affair, but I’d never quite heard the tone of entitlement like I had that day. I meant nothing to her. Her children meant nothing to her. The only thing she valued was herself and whatever happened to hold her attention at that moment.
I was deeply troubled. I didn’t deserve this; the boys didn’t either. This wasn’t what I signed up for. Somehow, deep inside, I realized that there was something wrong with her. This was all new behavior, a new attitude that had developed during 2016. She had never been this way before. My sense that something was psychologically wrong with Demi was important: up to this point, it helped me endure far more than anyone should have.
But after the events of December 17, something was turning inside me. Something big. I was evolving again.