25. Fiona
Fiona
The office was colder than she expected.
Fiona smoothed her skirt as she sat across from the attorney.
The woman flipped through a file, clicked a pen. “So, you’ve been married… two years and eight months, correct?” She made a note on the file. “No children?”
Fiona shook her head.
The attorney nodded, jotting something down. “Most of the income came from your husband’s work?”
“Yes.” Her hands folded in her lap. “I’m a teacher.”
The attorney offered a sympathetic smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m going to be honest with you. Without children, joint property, or significant time, it’s unlikely you’ll receive any spousal support.
Courts look at short-term marriages differently—especially when there’s a large income gap. ”
“I’m not asking for anything,” Fiona said quickly. “I just want it done.”
A pause. The woman looked at her a moment longer than necessary. “I understand. Still, I’m obligated to walk you through your rights.”
Fiona nodded. “Of course.”
“There’s also the question of any joint assets—bank accounts, credit cards, property. You’d be entitled to half of anything acquired during the marriage.”
Fiona thought of the apartment, but it had always been Dean’s, from before she’d met him. His name was on everything. She just lived in it.
“Everything’s in his name,” she said. “I never asked to be added to anything.”
Another brief note scribbled down. The attorney’s voice gentled. “You understand that, legally, that limits your claim to those assets?”
Fiona nodded. “I understand.”
The attorney sat back. “You’re walking away with very little.”
“That’s fine,” Fiona said. “It wasn’t mine to begin with.”
She meant the money. The apartment. The lifestyle. But she was also thinking about the version of love she’d believed in. The way Dean had touched her hair and smiled at her across crowded rooms. The way she’d folded herself into his life like origami—soft edges, easy to discard.
She looked down at the stack of papers in front of her.
It felt final. But not tragic.
Just true.
“I’ll sign whatever I need to sign,” Fiona said.
The attorney nodded. “I’ll draft everything and send it over for review. No need for court if he doesn’t contest.”
“He won’t,” Fiona said quietly. “I’m not asking for anything from him.”
She stood up, thanked the attorney, and walked out of the office with her spine straight and her pulse loud in her ears.
Outside, the sky was gray—not stormy, just muted. Fiona zipped her jacket, hugged it around herself, and started walking.
There was nothing glamorous about this. No big, cinematic scene. No teary monologue. Just paperwork and silence and the ache of waking up to a life that no longer fit.
But each step she took felt a little more solid.
She was done being someone’s punchline.
She was done trusting her heart to someone who wounded her.
Fiona sat cross-legged on the bed in Emma’s guest room, laptop balanced on a pillow, a spreadsheet open and taunting her with its neat, impossible rows.
Rent. Utilities. Groceries. Gas. Health insurance.
Her salary from the district.
A rough estimate of what she could pick up in tutoring hours.
The balance in her checking account, so small it made her chest tighten.
She took a breath, rolled her shoulders back, and kept going.
There would be no more shared account. No more sleek apartment with its pre-paid parking and automatically refilled Nespresso pods. No more Amazon boxes arriving like clockwork with things she didn’t even remember ordering. No more dinners where someone else picked up the check.
No more “just put it on my card.”
This was her life now.
She leaned back, running a hand through her hair, eyes flicking to the pale morning light leaking through the blinds. Her commute from Sweetwater to the city wasn’t just long—it was exhausting.
She needed to be in the city.
But could she afford it?
Her cursor blinked on the “rent” line of the spreadsheet. Studio apartment rentals in her area of the city had gone up again.
Most places were too expensive. The ones that weren’t were either terrifying or almost as far away from her school as Sweetwater.
She could make it work. She had to. She could live with roommates, pack lunches, say no to dinners out, maybe sell a few of the nicer gifts she’d never really used. That leather bag she only wore once. The boots Dean had insisted were a “timeless investment.”
She closed the spreadsheet and sat with the quiet for a moment.
This wasn’t the life she’d planned.
But it was hers now.
Fiona stared at the blank page for ten minutes before she started typing.
She deleted the first draft. Too bitter.
Deleted the second. Too vague.
The third felt closer to true.
Sometimes starting over means looking at spreadsheets at 6 AM and realizing you've been living someone else's life for so long you forgot what yours costs.
I'm learning how much things actually cost. Not just rent and groceries, but independence. Dignity. The right to be yourself without wondering if someone's taking notes for later.
To everyone rebuilding: it's scary and expensive and some days you'll eat peanut butter for dinner. But it's yours. And that's worth more than I ever knew.
She hesitated, thumb hovering over the share button.
This was more personal than anything she'd posted before. More raw. But it was her choice, she had a say in what she was showing the world.
She posted it.
Within minutes, the comments started coming. Not many—her follower count was thankfully small—but real.
you're braver than you know
left my ex last year, still eating ramen but sleeping so much better
this hit me right in the heart
Fiona set the phone aside and looked around Emma's guest room. The mismatched furniture, the faded quilt, the stack of library books on the nightstand. It wasn't much. But it was honest.
Her phone buzzed again. Another comment.
thank you for being real about this. starting over at 35 and terrified but your posts help
She wasn't just healing herself. She was accidentally helping other people heal too.
That felt like something worth building on.