Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE
Berenger and I owned the house jointly.
Fifty-fifty title.
Mortgage originated during marriage.
Down payment:
$180,000.
Source:
$90,000 from his savings.
$60,000 from mine.
$30,000 gift from my parents to both of us.
Documented.
No simple:
His house.
My house.
The family court gave me temporary exclusive use because:
I was pregnant.
The alleged domestic violence occurred there.
Berenger had another safe residence available through a corporate apartment temporarily and later rented his own place.
The order did not award me ownership.
It did not decide final equity.
It said:
He stays out for now.
Good.
Then the pit.
Police photographed.
Garden crew later removed loose soil only after evidence release.
I could not bring myself to look at it.
Dad offered to have the entire bed filled with concrete.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want revenge landscaping.”
He laughed despite himself.
Then:
“What do you want?”
“Level it.”
So a contractor leveled the garden.
Grass seed.
Nothing symbolic.
No memorial.
Then food.
I opened the pantry.
Everything still there.
Cereal.
Pasta.
Crackers.
Rice.
The lock Berenger installed on the pantry doors was evidence.
Police photographed it.
Afterward I had a locksmith remove it.
I ate a bowl of cereal standing at the counter.
Halfway through, I started shaking.
Not because food was scarce.
Because it was available.
Trauma can make abundance frightening.
My therapist, Dr. Mira Hall, said:
“Do not turn meals into tests of recovery.”
So I stopped forcing myself to finish.
I ate when I could.
Small.
Regular.
The obstetrician monitored weight.
Baby growth remained normal.
Good.
No miracle resilience.
May you like
No catastrophe.
Just care.
