The mediator continues working through the list, line by painful line. My student loans—small but still there. The medical bill. The personal loan he took out in my name since I had income, the one he claimed was to get his business started, which somehow turned into a fancy new laptop and a trip to Vegas.
“With his income at zero and yours as stated,” the mediator says eventually, pushing her glasses up her nose, “it appears you are the higher earner, Holley.”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Higher earner. Like I’m rolling in stacks of cash instead of skipping dinner some nights to make the numbers work.
“That means,” she goes on gently, “that unless we see documentation showing otherwise, the court is likely to assign you responsibility for the majority, if not all, of the marital debt.”
The words blur around the edges. For a second, I think I might actually black out. The room feels too small. The air too thin.
My voice comes out in a croak. “All of it?”
“Not necessarily all,” she says quickly, with a glance at Denise. “But with his lack of verifiable income, the court’s primary concern will be assigning debt to the spouse most able to pay it back. They don’t want to burden someone who is currently unemployed. That’s just the reality.”
My gaze snaps to him. He’s sitting there, relaxed. He doesn’t look burdened. He looks like a man who went out drinking last night and slept in this morning.
“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.
