Not long after everything blew up, Rudolf told me — very firmly — that I had to see a proper lawyer. He’d already chosen one: Alec Costa.
In Johannesburg, the name did all the talking. Alec had a reputation for being a bulldog in divorce court. You didn’t want him against you. You did want him on your side.
I met him in his Sandton office. He listened to my whole sad story with that expression you sometimes see on hard-bitten professionals — not cruel, just a man who has heard it all before. When I finished, he said simply:
“You need to move out. Today.”
This blindsided me.
“Move out? But it’s my house.”
“I know,” he said, “but this isn’t about property. It’s about your kids. Get yourself out of that environment, clear your head, and then we’ll know what we’re dealing with.”
I didn’t like it, but I understood it. And I didn’t trust my own judgement anymore, so I did what he said.
I drove straight to an estate agent, still half in shock, and by some miracle there was a place two streets down on Lurgan Road: a basement flat under a bachelor’s house. Two big rooms, a small open-plan kitchen, and a private entrance through the garden. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was available immediately.
I furnished the place entirely on my credit card because I had no access to cash.
A couch. A double bed in each of the bedrooms, a few kitchen appliances and a Balinese coffee table I definitely couldn’t afford but bought anyway because it made the place feel less like a bunker.
It came to around R30,000, which was a frightening amount at the time.
There was a part of me — a surprisingly large part — that felt a spark of excitement. Independence. My own space. My own decisions.
But the other half of me was in full panic.
I remember waking up one of the first Sunday mornings, lying there in this unfamiliar room, and being hit with a wave of pure longing:
I want to be home. Two streets up. With my kids. With my wife. How did this happen?
It felt almost identical to the fear I’d had years earlier leaving my mother. Only much later did I realise I’d probably never stopped carrying that attachment to “home,” and I’d simply transferred it onto Terry. Maybe that smothered her. Maybe not. Either way, it was a mess.
My birthday came on the 16th March— the same day my absurd ultimatum letter to Terry expired, which of course she ignored.
So I went back to Costa and said, “Alright, we need to file for divorce.”
When the subject of custody came up, I said immediately:
“Custody comes to me.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
I explained that Terry had always said she married too young and wanted freedom. He listened, then said:
“This is South Africa. Women don’t give up custody unless they absolutely don’t want it.”
I said, “I’m telling you — she doesn’t.”
So we filed.
John — Bernie’s husband — recused himself because he knew both of us, so Terry was handed over to another lawyer. Everything looked straightforward: I’d get custody, the house would be sold, and the proceeds split.
And then everything changed.
It happened on a Sunday at Paddy’s house. He’d invited me and the kids for a braai. Terry was away with Doug on a dirty weekend in St Francis Bay — ironically, the place where she’d once proposed to me.
It was me, Paddy, Catherine (Paddy's fiance), Mary, Bernie, John, and the kids.
Then Mikey’s phone rang.
It was Terry and after they chatted a while I heard him say "we're at Paddy's" then "yes, Daddy’s here".
That was it. A perfectly innocent phone call but it changed everything-
The next morning, her lawyer sent a letter saying they were now seeking custody.
The penny had dropped for her: her own family weren’t automatically siding with her. They were treating me fairly — maybe even slightly in my favour. And that burst her fantasy of a clean escape: freedom, new boyfriend, and me quietly raising the kids. Her family's loyalty would go where the kids went.
So back to Costa I went. He’d predicted this turn almost word for word.
He said, “Before I tell you what we should do, let me tell you what we could do.”
He then outlined the nuclear option: portray her as an unfit mother, attack her in court, go for full custody, and win. He estimated it would cost 500 thousand rand but he would win, he had done it before.
Then he looked at me and said:
“But do you really want your kids growing up with a destroyed mother?”
And of course, I didn’t.
So he said, “Fine. But we’re going to pretend we’re going that route. We’ll hit them hard, they’ll panic, and they’ll come back with joint custody. Which is what you want: kids with her, but equal decision-making and visitation rights for you.”
It was the first thing that made sense in weeks.
The showdown was at his Sandton boardroom. I remember it clearly.
It was a late afternoon meeting and Terry arrived 15 mins late and clearly tipsy. She looked fantastic, relaxed, smiling, clearly coming from drinks with Doug.
And then Costa went at her.
Not shouting — just relentless, sharp, and absolutely uncompromising.
She went from cheerful to crumbling in under five minutes.
I have never seen anybody verbally evicerated so clinically before. It was awful to watch, but effective.
The very next morning, her side folded and agreed to joint custody.
The last step was the family advocate. Terry and I met in the parking lot in central Johannesburg with all three of the kids. We walked together into this building to have strangers assess whether we were fit parents.
On the way in, Terry quietly took my hand.
And I just felt this wave of sadness — overwhelming, physical. I didn’t sob, but tears rolled down my face. The tragedy of it all — our three beautiful children, our broken marriage — it was almost too much.
We did the interviews.
We answered their questions.
The kids were brave and bewildered.
The divorce itself was finalised much later.
And by that time, I was already with Rowena.
But that’s the next chapter.