Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO NEED FOUR WEEKS
Jolene had moved into our loft eleven weeks earlier.
She was supposed to stay for twenty-eight days.
A pipe had supposedly burst inside the walls of her house in Scarsdale while she was visiting Vance’s older brother, Dean, in Connecticut.
“Black mold everywhere,” Vance told me.
I said yes before I even thought about it.
His mother had been difficult since our engagement, but a damaged house was a damaged house.
She was sixty-three.
She needed somewhere comfortable.
We had a 2,600-square-foot loft with a guest suite.
Four weeks seemed manageable.
Jolene arrived with seven suitcases.
Then came twelve garment boxes.
Then framed photographs.
Then the antique writing desk she said was “too delicate for storage.”
By week three, her mail was arriving downstairs.
By week four, she had changed the guest-room curtains without asking.
By week five, Dean’s twenty-seven-year-old son Tyler was sleeping on our sectional three nights a week because Jolene “hated being alone when we were out.”
By week six, Jolene had moved my grandmother’s serving dishes out of a cabinet to make room for hers.
I complained to Vance.
His answer never changed.
“She lost her home for now. Have some compassion.”
Then he began changing too.
He stopped correcting Jolene when she criticized me.
Then he joined in.
Why didn’t I make breakfast on Saturdays?
Why did I need dinner with my college friends twice a month?
Why was the office door locked when I worked from home?
Why did my paycheck still go into an account with only my name on it?
That last question bothered me enough to schedule a consultation with Rachel Feldman, a matrimonial attorney recommended by a coworker.
I didn’t tell Vance.
I told myself I wasn’t planning divorce.
I only wanted to understand what would happen if our marriage got worse.
Rachel asked who owned the loft.
“I do.”
“When did you purchase it?”
“Four years before marriage.”
“Has he contributed to principal payments or major improvements?”
“Some household expenses. Not the purchase.”
“Did you ever add him to the deed?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Then stop casually calling it ‘our property’ when discussing ownership. It may be your separate property, although marital claims can become fact-specific.”
Then she warned me about something else.
Vance was my spouse.
I could not simply change the locks tomorrow and dump his clothes on Broadway because we had an argument.
If I wanted exclusive occupancy, we would have to handle it legally.
Jolene and other short-term guests were different questions, depending on facts surrounding their occupancy.
“That means documentation matters,” Rachel said.
So I began documenting.
The comments.
The mail.
The demand that I share account passwords.
The night Vance blocked the bedroom doorway during an argument.
The day he grabbed my phone and held it above my head while laughing.
Then, nine days before the basin incident, Vance caught my wrist when I tried to leave dinner and squeezed until my fingers tingled.
He apologized the next morning.
I photographed the faint marks anyway.
Rachel prepared papers.
I waited.
Some stupid part of me still hoped I would never file them.
Then Jolene ordered me onto my knees.
May you like
And Vance grabbed my arm because I refused.
That night, I stopped waiting.
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