Page 60 of The Humiliated Wife
Fiona
The office was colderthan 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.
