A low, guttural moan rolled up from my core.
“If there’s a silver lining,” she continued, “it’s that all the accounts will be under scrutiny now. He won’t be able to squander what’s left in the joint accounts, and you still have access to those as well.”
“What about the withdrawals made before the filing?” I asked. “Robert took several large sums of cash from the account I typically use.”
“Cash is harder to trace, but he’ll be asked about that. I’ll make sure of it. When you get a chance, if you’ll log in and send any available statements, that would be helpful as well.”
“Doing that now,” I said, downloading the files from my app. “I have a card for another bank I can use for now.” Assuming he’d left any money in that one. “For the record,” I said, “Robert would never run out of money, risk it all on any kind of investment, or file for bankruptcy. We had enough money to live comfortably for years without worry, and that doesn’t include our investments. He’s doing this intentionally. I’m certain of it.”
“It’s certainly not unheard of for a partner to hide money or assets during a divorce. Unfortunately, the proof is often hard to come by, unless you can afford a good forensic accountant. They aren’t cheap, but you might consider it in this case.”
“Let’s do that,” I said. “What will it cost? And do you have someone you can recommend?”
“I work with a great firm out of Norfolk. Costs vary, but I’d say you should be prepared to spend at least ten grand to get started. More if they find anything and really start to dig. We can get into this more during mediation prep.”
I thought back to the dwindling balance in my savings account and knew it was now or never. “Send me the contact information.”
“Will do,” she said. “And Soph, a little unsolicited advice. I know Robert, professionally. I know his network and his type. This could get a lot worse real fast. If I was you, I’d get a job.”
I thanked her for the advice and disconnected on a mushroom cloud of outrage and fear.
Without the money in those accounts, I’d lose my home. I couldn’t afford to pay for more than my groceries with the money I made from baking. There’d be nothing left to pay my bills or property taxes. Iwouldn’t be able to buy more ingredients to keep baking, or to put gas in my car. I’d be stuck in this house like my mother, but without a choice.
Panic welled in me, and my cowardly inner voice taunted.Told you we couldn’t make it without him. Told you the punishment for leaving would be far worse than staying put. No one wins against Robert, and there’s no going back now.
I jumped when her text arrived moments later. I told my inner coward to shut up. Then I hired the forensic accountant.
With a little luck, Robert would take note of exactly where that money went and think twice before continuing this bankruptcy charade.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, I met a customer at a café and traded baked goods for cash. From there, I carried my iced coffee on a long walk down Main Street, enjoying the view. I ambled along a low brick wall, high above the flowing river. Couples placed locks on a section of fencing to represent their love. Others held hands, carried babies, and walked their dogs.
I admired the blue sky and vibrant flowers, felt the sun on my face, and the peace in my heart. This new life had tough spots, but I would never willingly return to how things were. I was proud of what I’d done so far to change my life and felt hopeful as I looked ahead.
I just had to figure out what to do about money.
The income I made from baking helped, and I loved the work, but it was a feast-or-famine situation. Five orders one day, none for the next week. Social media posts were raising awareness, and the engagement was great, but the newly raised prices weren’t enough to make up for the inconsistent orders. I barely cleared minimum wage when I considered how much I had to spend on high-quality supplies.
These days, it was significantly easier to understand my mother’s decision to stay with my father. I didn’t agree with the way she’d lived, but I kicked myself internally for the harsh way I’d judged her. I’d previously assumed she could’ve just gotten a job to support herself and me, instead of marrying Dad or staying with him for so long. Nothing was that simple. Not now, and absolutely not then. Circumstances madethings much easier for me than for her. I only had to make enough money to feed myself and keep the lights on at a home I’d inherited.
I should’ve had more compassion for my mother. The weight of my newly expanding emotions grew as I walked and thought of all the things I’d tell her today if I had the chance.
Now I was the one who needed a job. I had no idea where to begin. The only monetizable skill I had was baking. And maybe childcare, but I didn’t particularly like other people’s children, so nannying would be a last resort.
I supposed there were plenty of cluttered garages, basements, and closets in the area I could clean and organize for a fee. Could I complete enough projects every month to stay afloat? How did I find people willing to pay? I still hadn’t finished all the closets at Mom’s house. Some, I willfully ignored.
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked the universe, turning a palm and my gaze upward in a soft, exasperated plea.
The honk of a horn pulled my attention to the road, where a sedan narrowly missed a cyclist crossing the intersection.
On the corner, beside the frazzled biker, stood Chez Margot. In its window a small white sign held three neatly printed words.
Pastry Chef Needed
I crossed the street, drawn to the sign as if the universe put it there just for me. It certainly felt that way, and why not? I needed a job, and the restaurant needed a baker.
What would Lucas think if I appeared and applied? Would he remember me? Was it better or worse if he did?
