The week before Andrew's deposition, Priya prepared me for what the process might feel like.
I expected a lesson about questions and objections.
She began with something else.
“You are going to hear him tell a version of your marriage that may sound unfamiliar.”
“I know.”
“You may feel compelled to correct every sentence.”
“I probably will.”
“Let the record develop. We can address inaccuracies with evidence and appropriate follow-up.”
We practiced listening to an unpleasant answer without interrupting.
Priya played Andrew.
She claimed I had only helped with social arrangements.
I began explaining a dozen examples.
She raised a finger.
“That's the instinct to resist. Now take the answer down and decide what documentation addresses it.”
I tried again.
This time I wrote a note instead of speaking.
“Better,” she said.
We also talked about what deposition testimony could and could not establish.
A hesitant answer was not automatically a lie.
An incomplete answer might need a follow-up question.
A witness could genuinely fail to remember a date from several years earlier.
The purpose was to gather information under oath, not to provoke a dramatic collapse.
I had known those principles professionally.
Applying them to Andrew was harder.
On the morning of the deposition, I woke before the alarm.
I made toast and left half of it untouched.
I wore a simple navy jacket I'd bought for my new job.
The jacket had no special meaning.
But it fit comfortably, and I wanted to spend the day thinking about questions instead of whether my collar was crooked.
Lena sent a message wishing me luck.
I replied with a picture of the notebook on the passenger seat.
She wrote, Don't forget lunch.
I smiled despite myself.
During a break, I sat alone near the reception desk.
Andrew walked past toward the restroom.
For a second, he seemed ready to speak.
Then he continued down the hall.
I remembered him walking away from difficult conversations in our kitchen.
Here, however, the formal process would eventually require answers to relevant questions.
That difference made me grateful for procedure.
Not because it guaranteed truth, but because it gave both sides a way to test claims without shouting.
After the deposition, Priya and I reviewed the transcript order and agreed on the next steps.
We would examine the testimony alongside the produced records.
We would identify issues that genuinely needed clarification.
We would avoid pursuing matters merely because Andrew's tone had hurt me.
I went back to the nonprofit the next day.
A client was upset because a letter had been returned for missing information.
He wanted to know whether he should give up.
I showed him the section that needed correction and helped him prepare a response.
It reminded me of my own case.
A returned document wasn't necessarily defeat.
An incomplete answer wasn't necessarily the end.
The work sometimes consisted of asking the next clear question.
At lunch, I walked around the block.
I passed a shop selling flowers and bought a small bunch of yellow tulips.
I put them on my desk in a jar.
Nobody had sent them to apologize.
They were not evidence of anyone's affection.
I bought them because they made an ordinary Tuesday brighter.
That small act of choosing for myself was becoming familiar.
The deposition transcript arrived with a certification from the court reporter.
I read it slowly, marking the pages where Andrew described his understanding of the disputed agreement.
Some answers sounded harsher on paper than they had in the room.
Others sounded unexpectedly vulnerable.
I resisted the urge to treat the transcript as a diary of our marriage.
It was testimony given in response to particular questions.
Priya asked me to identify specific factual discrepancies.
I prepared a short table with the question, the answer, the document that might clarify it, and whether any follow-up was necessary.
There were fewer issues than I'd expected.
Several statements were differences in interpretation rather than facts we could resolve with documents.
Andrew said he had felt unsupported during the company's hardest year.
I remembered spending that year working late into the night on his invoices.
Both of us might honestly have felt alone.
The court could not determine the emotional meaning of every evening.
It could examine financial transactions and relevant contributions.
I set the transcript aside and went for a walk.
The air had turned cold.
A child was practicing riding a bicycle near the apartment courtyard.
Her father jogged beside her, one hand hovering near the back of the seat.
When she wobbled, he caught the handlebars.
When she found her balance, he let go.
I watched until she reached the far corner on her own.
It reminded me of how support was supposed to work.
Someone could help another person become steadier without claiming credit for every movement.
Andrew and I had lost that balance.
He wanted the benefits of my support without acknowledging it.
I had made myself indispensable because I was afraid to be unnecessary.
Both patterns had harmed us.
The insight did not alter the financial evidence.
It helped me understand why ending the marriage required changes beyond a court order.
There was another difficult moment when Priya asked how I wanted to handle future direct messages from Andrew.
I told her that I could respond briefly to logistical questions and direct legal issues through counsel.
She suggested writing down the rule so I would follow it consistently.
I saved a short draft in my phone.
For documents and settlement terms, please contact my attorney. For practical arrangements, please give the relevant date and information in writing.
The words looked impersonal.
But they gave us a way to communicate without reopening every accusation.
The next time Andrew sent a frustrated message, I read it and waited until I could identify a genuine question.
There wasn't one.
I did not answer.
A day later, he sent a clear request about collecting a box from storage.
I replied with two available times.
The exchange took less than five minutes.
I wished we had learned that kind of restraint while we were still married.
The deposition was held in a conference room with no windows.
There was a long table, a pitcher of water, and a court reporter who spoke softly as she introduced herself.
Andrew arrived with Calder.
He wore the same watch I'd given him on our fifth anniversary.
I noticed the worn leather strap before I noticed his face.
That surprised me.
Part of me was still alert to every familiar detail.
I sat beside Priya, who had agreed to represent me for this phase of the case.
Her role was clear and documented.
I was relieved not to manage every question alone.
There was no judge in the room.
The reporter administered the oath, and the lawyers began.
Andrew confirmed his position at Ellison Route Solutions.
He described its revenue fluctuations and the loans he said Frank had provided.
He was asked about the dates the alleged advances were made.
He referred to his records.
He was asked why Northlake Advisory had received money labeled consulting fees.
He said the company provided strategic advice.
When asked who performed the work, he named Frank.
“Did Mr. Ellison prepare written reports?”
“Not always.”
“Were there contracts?”
“There might have been.”
“Where are they?”
“My accountant would know.”
The answers were not dramatic.
They were incomplete.
The distinction mattered.
A witness could have forgotten details without lying.
But missing documents made it harder to support a claimed debt.
Then Priya turned to the divorce agreement.
“Mr. Ellison, did you see Mara sign the version filed with the court?”
Andrew shifted in his chair.
“No.”
“Did she tell you she signed it?”
“I believed she had.”
“Why?”
“My attorney had the final copy.”
Calder intervened to protect privileged communications, and Priya narrowed the question.
“Before you instructed anyone to submit the document as executed, what did you personally know about Mara's signature?”
Andrew stared at the water glass.
“I knew she had refused earlier.”
“Did she later change her mind in your presence?”
“Not in my presence.”
“Did she send you a message agreeing to sign?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Did you ask her?”
“No.”
I kept my hands beneath the table.
I had expected him to deny the whole problem.
Instead, he was describing a decision to trust a piece of paper without confirming something he knew I'd opposed.
When the deposition ended, he looked at me for the first time that day.
“I didn't know it would become this,” he said.
Priya guided me toward the elevator.
“Not here,” she whispered.
She was right.
Any further discussion could complicate the record.
Outside, I bought a sandwich from a street vendor.
My appetite had returned in small, irregular bursts since I moved out.
I ate half on a park bench while traffic moved past.
Then I called my sister, Lena.
She had stayed out of the divorce at my request.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I'm tired.”
“Do you want company?”
“Yes, actually.”
She arrived with a bag of oranges and no questions.
We sat on the apartment floor because I still had only two chairs.
She peeled an orange and handed me half.
“I always wondered why you sounded so careful around Andrew,” she said.
“I thought I was keeping the peace.”
“I know.”
She didn't tell me she had warned me.
She hadn't.
She had respected my insistence that the marriage was fine.
“Do you wish you'd left earlier?” she asked.
“Some days.”
“And other days?”
“I remember who we used to be.”
She nodded.
“That can be true without requiring you to go back.”
I put the orange peel into a bowl.
It was the first conversation about the divorce in which I didn't feel required to prove anyone wrong.
The following week brought the deposition of the notary.
The record showed that the identification number in her journal did not match mine.
She acknowledged that she could not remember the individual transaction independently.
Her normal procedure was to inspect identification and have the signer appear in person.
But she couldn't explain the discrepancy.
When shown a photograph of me, she said she couldn't reliably identify whether I had appeared months earlier.
She did not claim to recognize me.
She also did not accuse Andrew or anyone else of wrongdoing.
The original document had still not been produced.
Calder explained that his office had received a scanned copy from a client-associated source.
The process of locating any original was ongoing.
That answer frustrated me.
Priya reminded me that frustration was not evidence.
We could request a clear accounting of who transmitted the scan and whether original signing records existed.
An expert could compare signatures if appropriate originals became available.
The court might later decide what weight to give the document.
But no one could honestly tell me the entire story yet.
That night, Andrew sent a text.
I never asked anyone to sign your name.
I stared at it.
It was the first direct denial he'd made.
I forwarded it to Priya and did not respond.
Minutes later, another message arrived.
I should have checked.
That was a different statement.
It did not answer who created the signature.
It did tell me Andrew understood he had overlooked something important.
I wrote the date in my notebook.
Then I turned my phone off and went to bed.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Accounting Review That Changed the Shape of the Marital Estate
The Signature Andrew Claimed Was Mine and the First Question the Judge Asked
Part 7 of 12
