She winces. “That’s rough.”
I wince at the understatement, but she’s the first lawyer today, male or female, to offer what feels like actual sympathy. “I thought that we were happy. Or at least okay.”
“So, he asked for a divorce so that he can marry her?”
“No. In fact, it’s really weird, but I’m getting the impression that he’d be perfectly happy to stay married and just keep things the way they are.”
“Interesting,” she says, not at all shocked. “I’m assuming that’s unacceptable to you.”
“Yes.”
“So, here’s the thing. If we were to work together, you’d have to decide what you care about most. Raking him over the coals or getting this over with in as equitable a way as possible.”
“I was kind of hoping for both. I mean, shouldn’t he be punished for what he’s done?”
“Yes, he should. But the courts aren’t going to do that. In Georgia, you’re looking at irreconcilable differences. What he’s done is abominable. Unfortunately, judges hear stories like this every single day.
“I prefer to represent women because I think they often get the short end of the stick. Women and children tend to come out of divorce worse off while men tend to walk away better off. If we work together, I will help you win your freedom. Because your freedom is the ultimate win. His punishment is not getting to be your husband anymore.”
“But he’s used our money to support another woman, another family.” My eyes well with tears that I’ve been holding back all day.
“That’s something we’d have to document and prove.” She pushes the box of Kleenex gently in my direction. “Judges want to see a father supporting his children regardless of who mothered them, and frankly, I think that is as it should be.” Her gaze is direct and unapologetic. “Is there any one asset that matters to you above all others?”
I dab at my eyes; as always, I’m uncomfortable crying in public. Most of the foster parents I lived with tended to equate tears with ingratitude. “I know Georgia is all about ‘equitable distribution,’ but I never had a home growing up. The one Mitchell and I bought is my first.” My throat clogs with emotion when I think back to the day we took possession. The bottle of champagne we shared sitting on the bare floor of the empty living room. “All I . . . I’d hate to lose the house.”
“Once we have a complete list of assets and debts and so on, we’ll have a better sense of what’s possible.” She meets my eyes. “I am extremely cost conscious—otherwise things can really snowball—and I’ll save you money wherever I can as long as it doesn’t jeopardize the outcome. If your husband hires an attorney, we have a much better shot at reaching a settlement. Going to trial can quadruple the cost.”
I watch her face as she talks. I like that she’s sympathetic but not soft. I hold my breath while she explains the required retainer and a ballpark of what I can expect to pay at her rate of $350 per hour. That ballpark, like all the others I’ve heard today, is far more expensive than I’d hoped, but at least she has addressed the issue head-on and promised to keep expenses in mind. Gut level, I feel comfortable with Bonnie Traiman in a way I didn’t with the others. I just hope my gut knows what it’s talking about.
We both glance down at our watches. I have only five free minutes left and plenty of other questions, but Dorothy’s situation has been in the back of my mind all day. For the first time, I bring her up.
“Are you and your mother-in-law close?” she asks after I explain the situation.
“No, not really. At least we never have been. But . . . what Mitchell’s done to her is just . . . wrong. And lying to the lender to make sure communication came only to him—wouldn’t that be illegal?”
“This isn’t my area of expertise, but we do have someone in the firm who deals with elder abuse.” She goes to her desk and comes back with a business card. “Just remember to be careful what you share with anyone who might not be completely in your camp.”
* * *
• • •
When I get home, exhausted and oddly hollow inside, I’m shocked to smell food and even more shocked that the tuna casserole and leafy green salad waiting on the table were made by Dorothy. A bottle of wine sits open, and presumably breathing, between our place settings.
“Wow, this looks great.” I wash my hands at the kitchen sink, wondering whether to be grateful or suspicious, then join her at the table.
“So, how did it go?” Dorothy asks, dishing salad and casserole onto my plate while I down half my glass of wine. This may be the most motherly gesture Dorothy has ever offered, but Bonnie Traiman wasn’t the only attorney I met with today who warned me to be careful about who I took into my confidence.
Dorothy may be living in “my camp,” but this was not her choice. The fact that she’s a voracious reader does not automatically make her a kindred spirit. She could be a very thin and somewhat frail Trojan horse.
“Okay,” I say as I drink an entire glass of water, then take a bite of salad. “I think I found an attorney.” I am careful not to offer details. Mostly I eat and drink—a Kind bar can only go so far—but neither the food nor the wine I wash it down with can wipe out this day or the realities of my life.
Her expression is tight-lipped, and I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m drinking too much or because I’m keeping the day’s details to myself. But she hasn’t exactly shared any of the conversations I’ve overheard her having with Mitchell. I have no real idea whether she’s friend or foe or somewhere in the middle, and I don’t know how to ask.
My wineglass is empty, and I’m trying not to dwell on how grossly and painfully unfair life is when Dorothy sets down her fork. She’s only eaten a few bites, and her glass of wine is untouched. Despite the tight lips and her faint air of disapproval, I see a shadow in her eyes, a vulnerability that reminds me that I’m not the only one of us battling fear and uncertainty.
“When I told the attorney I’m planning to hire what happened to your house, she said that it could possibly qualify as elder abuse.”
Dorothy does not meet my eye, but she’s clearly listening.
“She gave me the card of a lawyer who specializes in that field. For you. If you’re interested.”
Dorothy bunches her napkin in one hand. “I’m not that old. And I am not going to sue my son.” She sniffs. “He’s made mistakes. But I know he’ll come through. He’s promised to talk to the mortgage company and I guess I just have to believe he’s telling the truth.”
I beat back a rush of disappointment. Was I really expecting her to take my side over her own flesh and blood?