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)
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.
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.