You know the thing is, like 90% of the time, I’m fine, good even, but when I have to deal with anything that puts me back in Gregory world, where I have to think about him or the ordeal he’s left me in, it messes with my mojo big time. And these past two weeks, through a combination of good and bad news, my mojo has been rocked.
First, the bad news. It’s tax season! Another yearly reminder of how still being married is destroying me financially.
Accountant: Sorry Sara, you owe $XXXX.
Me: Seriously? Even taking X, Y, and Z into account?
Accountant: Unfortunately yes, you’re Married Filing Separately, you have to get a divorce.
Me: I’M TRYING.
On the bright side, this shouldn’t still be a problem next year (fingers mother effing crossed).
Now for some good news. You may have seen my post a couple of weeks back where I was toasting to the papers finally being served. WHEW. I mean that’s a load off. But of course that didn’t come without a special side of drama.
Having U.S. divorce papers served in Sweden costs $1910. Can you believe it? For that price, I should have just flown over there and served him myself but I digress. Anyhoo, I paid the money and waited for the magic to happen.
Three weeks went by without any update. Not wanting to eat into my retainer, I contacted the process serving company directly for news. Emails went unreplied to and calls unreturned.
After reading some not great reviews of the company, I was getting nervous and thought maybe I should cancel the charge on my credit card and go with someone else. So I did what I was trying to avoid, I emailed the law office. (You know what happens when they open an email, don’t you? They bill you.)
I explained my worries and was told to hold tight, they’d reach out and get back to me. Within an hour I had an email from the paralegal.
“He was served Saturday. I’ll forward more details when I have them.”
Sheeeeeeeeeesh! Why did it have to be so dramatic?! But my lord, what a relief.
And then I got the details.
He was served on a Saturday at 8:47 a.m. This news was accompanied by two photos, one of the paper he had to sign acknowledging acceptance which showed one shaky, shaky signature, and a photo of their house. Their sweet, cheery, yellow house with a sporty green fiat in the driveway and a stroller parked outside the front door. Oopsies, it sure looks like the whole family was home.
(I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take some perverse pleasure in this. No ill wishes to her at all, I strongly believe that she is a victim too. But knowing that I was able to reach into his personal space with the beginnings of retribution feels damn good. I finally understand the meaning of “revenge is a dish best served cold.”)
And then four days later, more good news arrived via a phone call from the detective in Dublin. I don’t know how much I can say about an ongoing investigation so I’ll just say this, I’m not the only one whose mojo has been rocked.
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