It happened on New Year’s Eve. We were at home when Daniel said he wanted a divorce. I asked why. He didn’t answer. He stood there for a moment, then went to the bedroom and started packing.
By the time he left, it was late. The house was quiet. The dogs stayed by the door. I didn’t follow him.
The next morning, I opened my banking app. Several automatic payments had been turned off. The car payment was canceled. The mortgage hadn’t gone through. I added up the balances across the accounts. The total was just over $85,000.
I texted Daniel and asked what was going on. He read the message. He didn’t reply.
My name is Marissa. I’m 52 years old. Daniel and I had been married for twenty-five years.
Two years earlier, doctors diagnosed me with blood cancer. The first treatment didn’t work. The second didn’t either. Last fall, I started a third line of treatment. I no longer work and receive disability benefits. I move slowly and spend most of my time at home.
The house, the bills, and the car had always been shared. We made major decisions together.
I live with two dogs and five cats. They were with us before I got sick. Now they’re with me. I feed them and walk the dogs when I can.
At the beginning, Daniel went with me to appointments and picked up prescriptions. He said we would get through it. A few months later, he stopped sleeping in the bedroom and moved to the couch. He didn’t explain why.
That was when it became clear this wasn’t a disagreement. He left me alone with a diagnosis and $85,000 in obligations.
After he left, nothing looked different at first. The house was the same. The dogs slept by the door. The cats sat on the windowsills. The lights were on. My phone still worked.
Daniel kept sending short messages. He asked how I was feeling. Sometimes he added, “Let me know if you need anything.” He didn’t mention money. He didn’t mention bills. He didn’t explain what was happening.
I lived like that for a few days. I checked my email. I checked the bank. I saw the same number every time — $85,000 — and closed the app. I did what I had always done, just alone.
Then came a notice from the bank. Then a letter about the mortgage. Then a call about the car.
Until that moment, I thought he had just left to think things over.
That was the first crack.
The trigger didn’t come from him. It came from the bank.
I opened the app and looked at the account history. Several automatic payments had been manually turned off. Not all at once. On different days. First the car. Then the mortgage. Then another account I didn’t check often.
I scrolled further. The dates didn’t line up with our argument. Some of the decisions had been made earlier.
I added the numbers. The total — about $85,000 — was now sitting under my name.
I texted him and asked directly why the payments were canceled. The message was read. There was no response. I called. It went to voicemail.
A few hours later, I got a notice from the auto lender. The car would be repossessed if payment wasn’t made by the end of the week.
I closed the app and tried to stand up. I couldn’t do it on the first try. I had to brace myself against the table, then the wall.
That’s when it became clear he knew exactly what he was doing.
I started putting everything in one place. Bank letters. Notices. Account histories. Dates. Amounts.
Some payments he canceled himself. Others he just stopped paying.
I printed the statements and spread them across the table. Car. Mortgage. Utilities.
Together, it still added up to $85,000.
I texted him again. Asked why he didn’t say anything. Why he didn’t talk to me first. The message was read. There was no reply.
The next day, he called. He said it wasn’t a good time to talk about money. He said I was making things harder than they needed to be. He said he was already under a lot of pressure.
He apologized. Briefly. Without specifics.
He said he would deal with it later.
He said I shouldn’t worry ahead of time.
After the call, nothing changed. The payments didn’t come back. The letters kept coming.
A couple of days later, his sister, Elaine, messaged me. She said Daniel was under a lot of stress. She asked me to give him space. She said this wasn’t the time for drastic steps.
She didn’t ask how I was doing.
She didn’t ask about my treatment.
She didn’t offer help.
When I mentioned the debt, she said, “He’ll take care of it.” Then she added that getting a lawyer would only make things worse.
The bills kept coming anyway.
About a week later, I realized help wasn’t coming.
Not from him. Not from his family.
I called my insurance company. Then the bank. Then a legal clinic that works with cancer patients. Everywhere I called, they asked the same questions. Did I have access to the accounts? Were there written agreements? Had anything been filed?
The answer was always the same.
No.
Every call ended with, “You need a lawyer.”
Every time, I looked at my medication list and thought about what needed to be paid next.
Waiting was no longer an option.
I called him myself. I said we needed to talk about the bills.
He said it wasn’t a good time. I said there wasn’t a better one.
I listed the payments. The car. The mortgage. Utilities. I said the number out loud — $85,000. He stayed quiet.
Then he said he never planned to leave me with nothing. He said he was just “taking a pause.” He said he needed time.
I asked why he hadn’t told me sooner. He said I wouldn’t have understood.
I told him the car was about to be taken. He said that could be handled later.
I told him the house was at risk. He said I was overreacting.
When I said I would talk to a lawyer, his tone changed.
He said that was a bad idea.
I ended the call.
The car was taken a few days later. I got a notification. I read it in the kitchen and locked my phone.
Then a letter about the mortgage arrived. It listed dates and amounts. I set it down with the others.
I stopped driving. Appointments had to be rescheduled. I checked bus routes, then closed the tab.
In the morning, I fed the dogs and checked my email.
During the day, I answered messages from the bank.
At night, I put documents into a folder.
The dogs waited by the door.
The cats slept on the windowsill.
The house looked the same.
It was just quieter.
The folder is still on the table.
I haven’t opened it yet.
I know what happens when I do.
Would you open that folder now, or wait a little longer?
