Naomi didn’t confront him that night. Instead, she went into Derek’s “home office”—a room he claimed was for business, though he hadn’t worked in years. She found his credit card statements hidden under magazines. The numbers were staggering: $15,000 here, $20,000 there. Recent charges for jewelry stores, luxury hotels, and restaurants she had never visited.
With a cold, hard focus, Naomi took photos of every statement. She sat on the edge of the guest room tub and opened her banking app. Derek had already transferred $600 of her $800 paycheck to his private account. The exhaustion had burned away, replaced by a crystalline resolve. She made a list: Lawyer. Financial Advisor. Moving company.
The next morning, for the first time in eighteen months, Naomi called in sick to the hospital. She drove to the office of Patricia, a divorce lawyer recommended by her friend Brenda.
“None of this is your fault,” Patricia told her firmly after hearing the story. “And you’re in a better position than you think. Did you sign for those gambling debts?”
“No,” Naomi said. “He said he’d handle the paperwork.”