My Husband Took Everything in the Divorce — He Had No Idea What He Really Taking and…
“Everyone thinks that,” I said. “That’s kind of the point.”
The next three months were a master class in acting.
I became exactly what everyone expected: broken, defeated, barely holding on.
I showed up to mediation with red eyes and trembling hands. I spoke softly, asked for almost nothing.
“I just want enough to start over,” I said. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”
I offered a settlement of $50,000, my personal belongings, shared custody of Tyler.
That was it.
Vincent agreed immediately.
He looked at me like I was a wounded animal he was kindly putting down.
Lorraine bragged to anyone who would listen that I “didn’t get a dime.”
Vincent bought himself a $15,000 watch.
Brittney redecorated my house and painted my kitchen gray like she was erasing me.
Diane kept fishing for info. I fed her exactly what Vincent wanted to hear.
“I can’t fight anymore,” I told her, letting my voice crack.
Within hours, Vincent would know.
And Tyler—my smart, observant son—started noticing the cracks.
Dad couldn’t afford a school trip, but wore a new watch.
Money was tight, but Brittney’s shopping bags piled up.
One night at my tiny apartment, Tyler asked quietly, “Mom… is Dad actually rich?”
I looked at him.
“What do you think?” I asked.
He stared at the table.
“I think he’s pretending,” he said.
I squeezed his hand.
“Just wait a little longer,” I told him.
Thursday, April 17th. Courtroom 4B.
Vincent arrived first in his best suit, watch gleaming, confidence dripping off him like cologne. Brittney waited outside, scrolling like this was a dentist appointment. Lorraine sat in the gallery with a smile meant for someone she’d already buried.
I walked in looking tired, defeated, perfect.
Judge Patricia Holden—a veteran family court judge with silver hair and zero patience for nonsense—reviewed the file.
“Mercer versus Mercer,” she said. “Final dissolution. Agreement reached?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Harold Whitfield said.
Nina confirmed.
Judge Holden looked at me.
“Mrs. Dunst,” she said slowly, “you understand you’re giving up substantial assets? Home. Business. You’re certain?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said softly. “I want him to have everything he asked for.”
The judge studied me like she wanted to save me from myself.
But I was calm. Represented. Clear.
“Very well,” she said.
Papers were distributed.
Vincent signed eagerly without reading.
I signed slowly, savoring every stroke.
Then Harold reached the addendum.
The liability disclosure.
I watched his face change—confusion, then alarm.
He flipped pages like he was searching for a mistake that wasn’t there.
He leaned toward Vincent.
“Sir,” he whispered, urgent, “we need to talk.”
Vincent waved him off. “Not now.”
Harold insisted, voice tight.
“You’re assuming all debt.”
Vincent blinked. “What?”
“The mortgages. The business liens. All of it,” Harold whispered. “It’s here. You’re personally liable.”
Vincent finally looked at what he’d signed.
I watched the color drain from his face.
House owed: $1.1 million. Value: $850k.
Business debt: $480k.
Vehicle obligations: $115k.
Additional liabilities: $200k.
Net: negative.
He hadn’t won.
He’d inherited a sinkhole.
Vincent stood up so fast his chair scraped.
“This isn’t right,” he blurted. “She hid this—this is fraud!”
Judge Holden’s voice snapped like a whip.
“Mr. Mercer, sit down.”
“These numbers are fake!” he insisted.
Judge Holden looked at the document like she’d seen this exact stupidity a thousand times.
“Mr. Mercer,” she said, “are you telling this court you don’t know your own financial obligations?”
Silence.
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