Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
“Unemployed.” The word scrapes my throat raw. “You’ve been working. You bragged about landing that big contract last month.”
His jaw tightens. “It fell through.”
“No, it didn’t.” Heat rushes into my face. “You posted about it. You bought that watch.” I jab my finger at his wrist. “You paid cash.”
He pulls his arm back like I might bite it. “It was a gift.”
Denise touches my wrist, a warning. “Holley,” she murmurs, “we’ll have a chance to challenge his disclosures. For now, let’s just hear the mediator out.”
I clamp my mouth shut. My vision swims.
The mediator clears her throat. “Again, this isn’t final. We’re just trying to reach an agreement you can both live with today. If we can’t, it goes to a judge.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “The emotional reality is hard. The numbers are what they are.”
The numbers are what they are.
I blink down at the papers spread out in front of me. Columns of figures stare back: balances, interest rates, payment schedules. The sum total of a life I thought I was building with someone else.
There’s a little note in the corner of one sheet, in my own handwriting from years ago, where I’d done some quick math. “Vacation fund!” with a smiley face. We never took that vacation.
The mediator continues talking, outlining possibilities—payment plans, negotiated settlements, potential for bankruptcy if it becomes too much. The words swirl around me. My heart thuds dully in my chest.
My only solace is as sharp and heavy as a stone.
We never had kids.
We talked about it. God, did we talk about it. Someday, when the business took off. Someday, when things were more stable. Someday, when we had more space, more money, more something.
Month after month, I watched my period come and felt that tiny stab of disappointment. I worried something was wrong with me. I imagined little faces that never existed, little birthdays that never happened. I grieved for something that never even got the chance to be real.
Now, sitting here in this ugly gray chair with my future reduced to lines on a spreadsheet, I’m grateful.
It hits me so hard I almost gasp.
If we’d had a child, they’d be tangled up in all of this. Custody schedules, child support, the way his irresponsible choices would have reached their little hands. I’d be fighting for bedtime routines and homework help and trying to explain why Daddy didn’t show up again.
Instead, it’s just me.
Just me and a mountain of debt and a house I’m going to lose and a credit score that might never recover.
Just me.
It’s not much, but it’s something. A tiny, fragile island of relief in the middle of all this wreckage.
I straighten in my chair. My spine aches, my throat burns, but I force myself to sit up.
Denise glances at me, eyebrows raised in silent question. You okay?
No. Not even close.
But I nod anyway.
“I want to move forward,” I say, and my voice, to my own surprise, doesn’t shake. “Whatever needs to be done to finalize this, I want it done.”
The mediator studies me. “Are you sure? We can take a break if you—”
“I’m sure.” I look at him then, really look. “I don’t want to be married to him anymore. I’m not dragging this out.”
His eyes flash with something—annoyance? Disappointment that I’m not begging? He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something cutting, then seems to think better of it.
The mediator nods slowly. “All right, then. Let’s see what we can agree on today.”
We go line by line. My car. His old truck, which “isn’t running” and “isn’t worth anything” but somehow cost two grand to modify. The furniture. The old TV.
The numbers stack up in front of me like bricks. By the time we’re done, I feel like I’m sitting at the bottom of a well, looking up at the circle of pale office light far above me.
“All right,” the mediator says finally, capping her pen. “I’m going to step out and make copies. Take a few minutes. If you’re both still in agreement, we’ll sign everything when I get back.”
She leaves the room with a shuffle of papers. Denise excuses herself to make a call during this break. The door clicks shut behind them.
Silence falls.
It’s just me and him, like so many times before in all the small, quiet moments of our marriage. Only now there’s nothing tying us together except ink and signatures and a shared history that suddenly feels like it belongs to someone else.
He exhales, long and dramatic. “Well,” he says, “you got what you wanted.”
I turn my head. “What I wanted?”
“A divorce.” He taps his fingers on the table. “You’re dumping me and walking away with the house, the good job, everything. I’m the one starting over from scratch here.”
A weird, strangled sound bubbles in my throat. Is he serious?