by Desean Rambo
***
“So that’s the deal,” my older lawyer said as she slid a document across the table in my direction. I had made the decision to consult with a divorce lawyer. I didn’t know if I was going to go through with it or not, but it had been six months and I was tired of waiting. A girl wanted to get back in the game, especially after the James incident. Tricia’s advice made a lot of sense. If I was going to do anything with anyone outside my marriage, the best idea would be to start with a clean break.
The lawyer was a nice white lady, about 55 years old with grayed hair and round Coke bottle glasses drawn across her neck by beads. I would imagine she’d been doing this for years. The quaint office displayed her advanced degrees in sociology, law, and criminal justice. Even though we had just met, there was probably a thing or two I could learn from Mrs. Powell.
“Since you two had no prenuptial agreements, you’d be entitled to spousal support. Considering he was discharged from the military and there’s a police report, this is an open and shut case.”
“I didn’t press charges though,” I said back to her quietly.
“Most victims don’t, especially when they are in a marriage. The courts already know that. You are still entitled to the spousal support since it was his actions that deemed the marriage unfit to continue,” she corrected me.
I didn’t like those terms. Entitled, deemed. This was my real life not some law book example. Taking what little money Justin had didn’t feel like the right thing to do. He was already on hard times.
She continued. “And you said there are no children?”
“None,” I replied. It hit me. If I went through with this, not only would it make Justin’s life horrible, the chances of us ever having children together would be over. I always talked about starting a family with him. How could I leave the marriage so soon? Was it my duty to try to see it that we have children? What if he wasn’t happy? Too many questions plagued my mind.
“He was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” I confessed.
Mrs. Powell’s eyes lit up. She scribbled down some notes in her file. Mrs. Powell was old school. She handwrote everything before entering it in a computer.
“There are some precedents on this. You may be entitled to compensation from the US government. Very little people know about it, but there are certain funds that have set-asides for victims of war-related mental issues.”
“I don’t want to do that,” I said as I slouched back. The stress was starting to overcome me. Mrs. Powell was a pit bull, just as her Yelp reviews advertised but I was not interested in taking money I didn’t earn. I just wanted something that resembled my regular life back. I needed to get all of the uncertainty off my mind.
“What do you think?” I said.
“Think about what?” she responded. She wasn’t sure if I was asking her as a woman or a client.
“I’m saying, if you were in my position what would you do?” I replied.
“I don’t know. I’m not you. I can’t predict what I would do if I were you,” she answered.
I was not in the mood for lawyer talk. “Look. Can I ask you a question, woman to woman?” Mrs. Powell took her coke bottles off and peered at me.
“Sure. Shoot,” she said.
“Do you like seeing people getting divorced? I know it’s what you do for a living, but what do you feel about seeing them lose that person in their lives?” I said.
“There is nothing I can do about it,” she said quickly. “I’m just the conduit to help someone do what they already want to do,” she added.
“What do mean by that?” I said. I was so confused. This decision was really bearing on my thoughts.
“You seem to have a good reason to pursue this. Abuse is a real thing, but it’s ultimately up to you what you want to do. Either you can break it off or you can stay in and see where it goes.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t even know what the right move is,” I said.
“Well. What do you want?” she asked me. Just as Tricia said, the ball was in my court.
“I just want to be free,” I said. “I just want to be with who I want to be with and be done with it.”
“Then what’s the problem? You came here, you’re clearly thinking about the divorce. It’s been six months.” Mrs. Powell said.
“You know what, I need more time. I need to talk to him about this,” I responded. “I’ll let you know in a week or so what I’m doing.”
I took the documents from her and left the office. It seemed surreal. There in my hands was the door out of my marriage if I wanted to take it. It wasn’t fair to make the ultimate decision without talking to Justin about it. I wanted him to know exactly what was up, for better or for worse.
