Page 3 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
Silent Night, Mediator Fright
November – Present time
Miranda
The mediator’s office smells faintly of damp carpet and nerves. There’s a bowl of dusty boiled sweets on the table and a fake orchid wilting in the corner. Someone’s tried very hard to make the place feel calm. It hasn’t worked.
Sim-Sim’s already here. He stands when I walk in, which is pointless but typical. His lawyer’s beside him—a lean man in a navy suit with expensive glasses and the air of someone who has made a fortune out of the misery of others.
Claire, the mediator, offers a warm, over-rehearsed smile and introduces everyone, even though we’ve all met before. Maybe it’s for show. Maybe it’s protocol. Or maybe she just can’t tell we’d all rather be anywhere else.
On my side of the table is Renata. My solicitor. Kind, efficient, sharp as a bread knife. She doesn’t do small talk, which I appreciate. She gives me a quiet nod as I settle into my seat.
Claire launches into her usual script. Fairness. Neutrality. Constructive dialogue. Her tone is soft and calm, the voice of a woman who’s probably guided more couples into polite endings than she cares to remember.
Sim-Sim doesn’t say anything. He keeps his hands clasped together in front of him. His lawyer whispers something in his ear, and he nods.
He didn’t want the divorce. Still doesn’t. He said it was one mistake. One stupid, meaningless, porn-grade decision that “meant nothing.”
Right. Once a cheater, always a cheater.I just couldn’t see a way back.
Renata turns the page.
“We need to address the housing situation,” she says. “Miranda is currently living in the Battersea property, which remains the primary residence for both her and SJ. She’s in the guest room. It’s a temporary arrangement, but it would be disruptive to move her and the child.”
Sim-Sim’s lawyer Giles clears his throat. “To clarify, the Battersea flat is owned solely by Mr Gordon. It was purchased before the marriage and is not considered a joint marital asset.”
“I’m aware,” Renata replies, calm. “We’re not disputing ownership. We’re talking about continuity and security for the child.”
“Simon Junior,” Giles says, and I nearly roll my eyes into another tax bracket.
“Simon Junior Junior,” I correct him, deadpan. “Or SJ, as literally everyone calls him.”
Giles gives a tight little smile.
“We’ve agreed Mr Gordon covers SJ’s expenses,” Giles continues. “School fees, clothing, travel. There’s no dispute there. He’ll provide generously.”
Renata doesn’t blink. “But no spousal maintenance. Despite the fact that Miranda paused her career at the birth of their son, in agreement with Mr Gordon, and has not been in full-time employment since.”
“She’s capable of working,” Giles says. “There’s no physical or medical barrier. Or, of course, she could remain in the marriage. That option is still open.”
I laugh. Just once, sharp and humourless.
“Oh, is it? How generous. I get a choice—poverty or forgiveness.”
Sim-Sim finally speaks. “It’s not about punishment, Miranda. I made a mistake.”
“So you’ve said.”
Claire shifts slightly in her chair. Renata stays completely still.
“You offered to cover everything for SJ,” I continue. “That’s fine. But I’m not just the woman who made him packed lunches for eight years. I gave up my job. My pension. My independence. Because we agreed that was what was best for the family. Your words.”
“And now you want me to keep paying you,” Sim-Sim says. “What for? To prove I’m sorry?”
“No,” I say. “Because I did the work. You built a business. I built a life around it. I won’t apologise for expecting that to count for something.”
He looks down at the table.
