He stood slowly, irritation flashing across his face. “Don’t bother, Rachel.”
“Don’t do what?”
He didn’t answer. He simply walked upstairs.
When I was officially served, the papers requested primary custody, full rights to the house, the car, the garage, and even my personal savings. There was also a statement questioning my “emotional stability” following surgery.
He had retained the best lawyer in the state, Daniel.
I needed representation too, but I didn’t have that kind of money — especially after Nick began moving our funds.
It became painfully clear: he wanted me left with nothing. No house. No financial security. Not even enough for long-term medical follow-ups.
After the initial proceedings, that’s exactly what happened.
I ended up broke, living with my sister, my baby in tow.
The night before my next court appearance, Chloe climbed into my bed. She was eleven — old enough to understand divorce, but still young enough to believe love could fix anything.
“I don’t want to leave you, Mommy. I want to live with you,” she sobbed.
I held her carefully against my side. “Don’t cry, my angel. I’ll figure something out, sweetheart. I love you. Everything will be okay.”