Chapter 13 - THE MEDIATION
Divorce mediation was less dramatic than television.
No shouting judge.
No shocking witness.
Just documents.
Numbers.
Dates.
Facts.
Preston hated facts.
They didn’t care how confidently he spoke.
The missing joint funds were accounted for.
The credit charges were accounted for.
The investment documents were reviewed.
So were the records showing how much each of us had contributed over the years.
Whenever Preston tried to make a speech, his attorney quietly redirected him.
By lunch, sweat had appeared near his collar.
During a break, he followed me into the hallway.
“Abby.”
I kept walking.
“Abigail.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You’re enjoying this.”
I almost felt sorry for him.
He truly couldn’t imagine any other reason I might defend myself.
“No.”
“You want to punish me.”
“I want to finish this.”
“Seventeen years means nothing to you?”
I looked at him.
“That’s the problem. It meant everything to me.”
His expression shifted.
For a second, I saw something real.
Regret, maybe.
Then he ruined it.
“If your parents hadn’t interfered—”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
He stopped.
“What?”
“You still don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“No. You don’t.”
I stepped closer.
“My father didn’t forge my name.”
Preston looked away.
“My mother didn’t hide a failed investment.”
“Abby—”
“They didn’t tell coworkers I was unstable.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“They didn’t steal from your company.”
His face hardened.
“Nothing has been proven.”
“Then I hope you get the chance to prove that.”
I walked away.
Three months later, our divorce settlement was finalized.
I kept my retirement account.
My share of the home equity was protected.
The withdrawn funds were included in the financial settlement.
There was no dramatic moment when Preston lost everything.
Real life rarely works that way.
He lost what his choices cost him.
His job.
His marriage.
Much of his reputation inside the company he once expected to lead.
I lost things too.
Seventeen years.
Trust.
The future I thought I had.
But loss and destruction are not the same thing.
One evening, I stood inside our old house for the last time.
The rooms were empty.
My footsteps echoed.
I walked into the dining room.
I could almost hear the birthday party again.
Laughter.
Glasses clinking.
Preston saying, Daddy’s little girl came with the name.
I stood in the exact spot where I had answered him.
Then I noticed something beneath the radiator.
A small folded piece of paper.
I bent down.
It was part of an old letter.
Preston must have missed it when he carried away the boxes.
I unfolded it.
My father’s handwriting was on the back.
Only one sentence.
Abby, if something feels wrong, ask one more question.
May you like
I sat on the empty floor.
And cried.
