Whenever I asked about the mortgage, he would say, “I’ve got it.”
Whenever a document needed signing, he would slide it across the table.
“Just sign here, Martha.”
And I did.
Because I trusted him.
That trust cost me almost everything.
By the time the divorce was final, Daniel had kept the house.
Most of our savings were gone.
The accounts I thought we shared were not as shared as I had believed.
And after the lawyers finished arguing over numbers I barely understood, I was left with a small amount of money, an eight-year-old daughter named Lily, two suitcases, and the terrible realization that I had spent two decades living inside a financial life I barely understood.
The duplex I found was small.
The kitchen was barely large enough for two people.
The upstairs bedroom had a window that rattled whenever the wind blew.
The living room had old wooden floors and a radiator that made strange noises at night.
