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

I left that session feeling lighter somehow, like I’d been given permission to stop tracking his suffering as proof of my worth.

The realization settled in slowly over the next few days: my healing didn’t depend on him hurting enough.

Friday afternoon, my phone buzzed with a text from Michelle, a friend from our old neighborhood who still talked to both of us.

She said Jerry wanted to know if we could discuss the house directly instead of through lawyers—that it would save us both money and time.

I felt that familiar irritation rise up, recognizing his manipulation even through a third party.

I took a screenshot of the message and forwarded it to Josephine with a brief note explaining the context.

She responded within an hour, saying she’d handle it and reminding me not to engage with any indirect contact attempts.

I felt proud of myself for documenting instead of responding—for maintaining the boundary even when he tried to work around it.

Monday morning brought a formal notice from the court setting a trial date four months out if we couldn’t reach a settlement agreement.

I stared at the date circled on the paperwork, feeling exhaustion wash over me at the thought of four more months of this dragging on.

The idea of sitting in a courtroom while lawyers argued over every dish and photo album made me want to cry.

I called Josephine and told her I wanted to keep trying mediation—that I needed this finished more than I needed to punish Jerry in front of a judge.

She agreed it was the smart choice and scheduled our third mediation session for the following week.

That evening, I sat at my friend’s kitchen table with my laptop open, looking at the spreadsheet I’d been maintaining of every charge Jerry made.

Every small reimbursement he owed me, every petty detail I’d been tracking for weeks.

I realized I was spending hours on things that would maybe net me a few hundred, while the real asset sat there waiting to be divided.

I made a choice right then to let go of the scorekeeping—to stop tracking the $15 he owed me for takeout or the $23 for gas.

I deleted half the spreadsheet and reorganized what remained around the house equity, retirement accounts, and spousal support terms that would actually impact my future.

Letting go of those petty details felt like releasing weight I didn’t know I was carrying.

The Final Decree and a New Horizon

The third mediation session happened on a gray Thursday morning in a conference room that smelled like burnt coffee.

Josephine and Sebastian went back and forth for three hours while Jerry and I sat at opposite ends of the table, avoiding eye contact.

Around noon, Sebastian proposed that Jerry would pay 40% of my legal fees and buy out my share of the furniture at fair market value based on recent comparable sales.

Josephine countered at 60% of legal fees, and I watched them negotiate down to 50%, which felt fair enough given the circumstances.

Jerry agreed to the furniture buyout if I provided receipts for the original purchase prices.

These small wins added up to something that felt like actual progress—like we might finish this without destroying each other completely.

Two days later, an email arrived from the company’s HR system with Sasha’s name in the sender field, but clearly drafted by their legal team.

The message acknowledged her role in violating workplace boundaries and expressed regret for any discomfort her actions caused.

Every word was carefully chosen to avoid admitting liability or giving me ammunition for any future claims.

I read it twice, recognizing it as corporate damage control rather than genuine remorse.

I clicked the formal acknowledgement button in the HR system without writing a personal response, understanding that this was the most I would get from her.

Saturday afternoon, I finished moving the last boxes into my new apartment—a modest one-bedroom in a quiet building 20 minutes from work.

My friend helped me carry the couch up three flights of stairs and then left me alone to unpack.

I sat on the floor surrounded by boxes as the sun went down, feeling the weight of both loneliness and freedom settle into my chest.

This wasn’t the life I’d planned when I married Jerry; it wasn’t the future I’d imagined when we bought that house together.

But it was mine, bought with my own choices and protected by boundaries I was learning to maintain.

The fourth mediation session stretched over six hours with only brief breaks for bathroom trips and stale sandwiches from the building cafeteria.

We worked through the division of retirement accounts, with Josephine and Sebastian trading proposals about percentage splits and rollover timelines.

The spousal support discussion took another two hours, with Jerry’s attorney arguing for minimal duration while Josephine pushed for enough time for me to get stable.

We settled on 18 months of modest monthly payments that would cover the gap between my income and my new expenses.

By late afternoon, we had a nearly complete term sheet covering every major asset and debt, with only a few minor details left to resolve.

I left feeling cautiously optimistic that we could actually finish this without going to trial.

The final settlement negotiations happened over email and phone calls during the following week, with our attorneys trading marked-up versions of the agreement.

Jerry would keep the house in exchange for paying me a lump sum for my equity based on the current appraisal.

The amount was less than I’d hoped for but more than I’d feared—enough to cover my apartment expenses for a year while I rebuilt my savings.

The spousal support terms stayed at 18 months, which wasn’t forever but gave me breathing room.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was fair enough, and when Josephine sent me the final version to review, I read through it three times before signing my name at the bottom.

I felt relief mixed with grief for what I was officially ending—for the marriage I’d thought we had and the future I’d believed we were building.

The court clerk called the following Tuesday to confirm they’d received our settlement agreement and both attorneys had submitted the required paperwork.

She explained that the judge would review everything within two weeks and then issue the final divorce decree pending our signatures and a 30-day waiting period.

I marked the date on my calendar, counting down to when this would be legally finished—when I could stop being Jerry’s wife and start being just myself.