He doesn’t look back. He just gazes at the mediator with that easy, practiced charm. “Yeah,” he states without a care in the world. “I’ve been freelancing, you know, jobs as they come type of stuff. Nothing steady enough to really count and expenses eat it up there isn’t a profit. I think it put a strain on our marriage. It’s been a rough few years for me as a carpenter.”
My cheeks burn. Rough few years…
For him.
What about me? How for years I’ve encouraged him to work for himself if that was what he felt best about? The reality was he couldn’t get along with anyone to manage to hold down a job working for someone else. He used to be a dedicated hard worker. The first few years getting his business off the ground he did well for himself. Even managed to pay for us to have a tropical vacation once. Then something changed in him. Work didn’t matter, I didn’t matter, and our vows no longer mattered.
The mediator frowns slightly. “No 1099s? Bank statements showing deposits? Anything that could help us estimate an average?”
He spreads his hands. “Most of its cash. Side jobs. Friends. I help out where I can, they slip me some cash for the handyman work. It barely covers gas. Not exactly paperwork, you know? I’m sleeping on couches where I can and in my truck sometimes. If I had extra I would support Holley for all the support she’s given me, but it’s just not there.” He laughs, like this is all funny, like not paying taxes and hiding income is adorably rebellious.
My nails dig into my palms. I think of the envelope I opened last month, the “intent to garnish wages” notice. My wages for his tax debts. Well, legally our tax debts as we filed jointly and he told me he paid the IRS for his self-employed part.
Guess what? It was a lie. He didn’t pay and then proceeded to not file taxes for the next two years. Leaving me with a debt that is full of interest and penalties that is now coming out of my paychecks.
None of that touches the other bills. The past-due credit cards. The medical bill from his urgent care visit that somehow never got paid. All of it addressed to both of us, stacked neatly on the table in my tiny kitchen.
The mediator makes a neutral sound. “Well, we have to work with the information we have.” She flips another page. “You, Holley—you’re working full time?”
I swallow, forcing my voice to work. “Yes. Office manager for a dental practice. Thirty-eight hours a week.”
“And your income is as stated here?” She taps the line on the form. My stomach clenches at the number. It’s not small, exactly, but it’s not enough. Not with everything hanging over my head.
“Yes,” I remark.
“Any other sources? Bonuses, side work?”
“No.” Unless we’re counting the nights I’ve laid awake calculating which bill I can be late on without everything collapsing. That feels like work. Only it’s a job I don’t get paid for. If I could earn money on stress, I would be a damn millionaire since this happened.
“Okay.” She scribbles something. “And this is the list of debts. Mortgage, car loan, three credit cards, one personal loan.”
Four, I think, but I bite my tongue. One of the cards has been sold to collections, so I guess it doesn’t count as an active debt anymore. Just a problem for a later date.
The mediator continues, “The mortgage is only in Mrs. Colson’s name at this point, is that right?”
“Yes,” Denise answers smoothly.
“Is there equity in the home?” The mediator inquires studying the documents. “As North Carolina is a no fault state and even though both names may not be on the mortgage the home is considered a marital asset and Mr. Colson is therefore entitled to half of the equity available in the home at the time of dissolution as well as half of the debts on the house if the value should be in the negative.”
Denise answers confidently as we have done the appraisals already. “There’s no equity in the house. In fact, if they sold it today, they’d be short at closing to pay off the current mortgage.”
I stare down at my hands. I used to love the house. The little ranch style home with the porch where I pictured myself someday holding a baby, coffee balanced on the railing, and the quiet of the mountains whispering their peace all around me.
We never painted the nursery. Why would we there was no baby on the way. We never even got around to clearing out the room, it was a catch all for his things.
The mediator looks up at us. “Are either of you planning to keep the house?”
I open my mouth, then close it. Do I want the house? Well, yes, I have made every payment on it. I feel like I deserve it. But the reality is, that house is no longer home. Plus, it’s very simple: I can’t. Not with those numbers. Not with my salary stretched like worn-out elastic. The idea of it makes my chest tighten.
“I can’t afford it,” I state the obvious, “and neither can he.” The words taste bitter on my tongue as the failure once again washes over me.
He leans forward. “I don’t want it,” he adds quickly rather than admit his own inadequacies. “I’m staying with a friend. I’m not looking to settle down right now.”
Of course he’s not. Settling down means bills and responsibility and grown-up conversations, and he’s always hated those.
The mediator nods again. “All right. So, we’re looking at a sale for the home.” She mutters as she scribbles away on her notepad.
A sharp pain spears behind my eyes. I try to imagine the house belonging to someone else. Christmas lights on the eaves that I didn’t hang. A different car in the driveway.
