My husband brought his “work wife” on our anniversary trip to Hawaii.

Josephine asked what I wanted to do, and I told her I’d agree, but only with strict rules.

Everything goes through attorneys, no direct contact with Jerry allowed, and I can walk away the second he tries to manipulate or gaslight me.

She drafted a response laying out my conditions, and Sebastian accepted them within two hours.

The first mediation session happened the following Tuesday in a bland office building with beige walls and uncomfortable chairs.

The mediator was a woman in her 50s who explained the ground rules while Jerry sat across from me looking tired and older than I remembered.

He started with an apology that blamed everything on work stress and the pressure of his position, saying he made poor choices but never meant to hurt me.

When I didn’t respond, he tried again, suggesting we could attend couples therapy to work through our communication issues and maybe save the marriage.

I looked at the mediator and told her clearly that I’m not interested in couples therapy or saving anything.

The mediator wrote something down and moved us to discussing asset division, but Jerry kept circling back to his apology like it should fix everything.

I left that session feeling exhausted and frustrated, knowing this was going to take longer than I hoped.

Two days later, Ronan called with an update about Sasha.

She was moved to a different department with no direct reporting relationship to Jerry, but the company decided not to terminate her employment.

I felt my jaw clench hearing that she basically got away with everything while I’m the one rebuilding my entire life.

Josephine reminded me during our call that my goal is protecting myself and moving forward, not making sure everyone involved gets punished the way I think they deserve.

That weekend, I noticed Jerry posting on social media about being targeted and misunderstood.

These were vague messages that didn’t name me but clearly painted himself as the victim.

Several mutual friends liked and commented with supportive messages, asking if he was okay and saying they were there for him.

I blocked three people who engaged with his posts and started going through my friend list, removing anyone who wanted gossip more than they wanted to actually support me.

My real friends already knew what happened and didn’t need Jerry’s version to decide whose side they were on.

Monday afternoon, I coordinated with a friend and called the non-emergency police line to arrange an escort while I retrieved my belongings from the house.

The officer who showed up was professional and patient, waiting while I went through each room making a list of what I was taking.

I documented everything with photos and left all of Jerry’s things exactly where they were.

I was not touching his desk or his closet or any of the items that were clearly his.

The whole process felt humiliating—needing a police officer there to prevent my own husband from causing a scene—but I was grateful he stayed by the door the entire time.

Jerry never showed up, probably warned by Sebastian to stay away, and I loaded everything into my friend’s truck without incident.

The second mediation session two weeks later went worse than the first.

Jerry insisted he should keep the house because his income is higher and he can afford the mortgage payments on his own.

I pushed back, saying we should either sell it and split the money or he needs to buy out my half of the equity at fair market value.

He acted like I was being unreasonable, claiming I’m trying to punish him financially instead of being practical about our situation.

We went in circles for three hours until the mediator finally called it, scheduling a third session for two weeks out and suggesting we both think carefully about what we’re willing to compromise on.

I left feeling angry and stuck, knowing Jerry was going to drag this out as long as possible.

That Thursday, Josephine asked me to come to her office for a reality check conversation.

She walked me through what would likely happen if we went to trial—what the judge would probably award me versus what I’m asking for—and how much the whole process would cost in legal fees and emotional energy.

I felt defensive at first, wanting her to tell me I deserved more and we should fight for everything.

But she kept bringing me back to the numbers and the probabilities, helping me see that compromise might actually serve me better than fighting for total victory that might never come.

Alone in my apartment that evening, I pulled up old photos from our wedding and the early years when things felt good.

I went through them slowly, remembering who I thought Jerry was and who I thought we were together.

Then I plugged in an external hard drive and moved every photo into an archive folder, organizing them by year before deleting them from my phone completely.

It felt like a small ritual, but it helped, giving me permission to let go of the version of Jerry I’d built in my head and accept that person never really existed.

The next morning, a formal letter arrived from the company’s HR department with the final outcome of their investigation.

Jerry had to repay all personal charges within 90 days, lost his corporate card privileges permanently, and received a formal written warning that would stay in his personnel file.

Sasha got a counseling memo about maintaining professional boundaries but no financial penalty or formal discipline.

I read through the letter twice, feeling that familiar mix of validation and frustration.

It was something—proof that I wasn’t crazy and the company took it seriously—but it wasn’t the clean justice I’d imagined when I walked into that conference room.

I filed the letter in my growing folder of divorce documents and tried to focus on what came next instead of what I wished had happened.

Tuesday morning, I sat in Janelle’s office for my third session, sinking into the worn couch while she pulled up her notes from last time.

She asked me what I wanted from Jerry now—what would feel like enough—and I started listing all the ways he should suffer for what he did.

She let me talk for maybe five minutes before gently interrupting.

She told me to notice how exhausting it felt to carry all that anger—how much energy I was spending on imagining his punishment instead of building my own future.

I felt defensive at first, wanting her to agree that he deserved everything coming to him.

But she kept redirecting me back to what I could control—what boundaries I needed to protect myself, what choices would actually serve my healing.

She explained that his consequences were his to carry—that whether he learned anything or changed at all wasn’t my responsibility anymore.