“Then you have leverage,” Angela said firmly. “Look, I’m not a lawyer, but my cousin is. She specializes in family law. Let me call her tomorrow. Set up a consultation. Just talk to her, okay? See what your options are.”
I spent the night at Angela’s house, sleeping fitfully on her couch.
My phone buzzed twice with messages from Trevor, but I didn’t look at them.
What was there to say?
He’d made his position clear.
In the morning, Angela made coffee and toast.
“My cousin can see you this afternoon,” she said. “Her name is Patricia Aong Quo, and she’s tough as nails. She’ll tell you straight if you have a case or not.”
“I can’t afford a lawyer, Angela,” I protested. “I’m drowning in debt as it is.”
“She’ll do a free consultation,” Angela said. “Just talk to her.”
So I did.
I left Angela’s house, went home to shower and change, and gathered every financial document I could find.
Bank statements, credit card bills, student loan papers, tuition receipts, apartment lease agreements showing I’d paid the rent.
I filled two large boxes with paper evidence of six years of sacrifice.
Trevor wasn’t home.
According to a text message I finally read, he was staying with “a friend” for a few days to give us both space.
I knew exactly which friend he meant.
Patricia’s office was in a modest building downtown—nothing fancy or intimidating.
She was a tall Black woman in her forties with gray streaks in her natural hair and sharp, intelligent eyes.
She shook my hand firmly and gestured for me to sit.
“Angela tells me you’re going through a difficult divorce,” she said.
“It’s not difficult yet,” I replied. “He just asked for one last night. But yes.”
“Tell me everything,” she said.
So I did—again.
The whole story from meeting Trevor in the emergency room to last night’s conversation.
Patricia listened without interrupting, occasionally making notes.
When I finished, she leaned back in her chair.
“You said you have financial records,” she said.
I opened the boxes and showed her—six years of documentation organized by year and category.
Patricia spent thirty minutes going through the papers, her expression unreadable.
Finally, she looked up.
“This is remarkable,” she said. “You’ve essentially created a paper trail proving you financed his entire medical education.”
“Is that useful?” I asked.
“Potentially, yes,” Patricia said. “In some states, courts recognize what’s called an educational support claim. If one spouse supports the other through professional school with the expectation they’ll both benefit from the resulting income, and then the educated spouse immediately divorces, the supporting spouse may be entitled to reimbursement.”
My heart started beating faster.
“Really?” I asked.
“It’s not automatic and it’s not easy to prove,” Patricia cautioned. “But you have something most people don’t—meticulous documentation. The question is, did Trevor ever acknowledge in writing that he owed you this money? Any emails, texts, signed agreements?”
I thought about it.
“Not explicitly,” I said. “But wait.”
I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through old messages.
Trevor and I had texted constantly during his school years, coordinating bills and schedules.
I found one from his first year of medical school.
I read it aloud.
“I promise I’ll pay you back for all this when I start earning real money. You’re the best, babe.”
I showed Patricia.
She read it and nodded slowly.
“That’s something,” she said. “Keep looking. Any other messages like that?”
I found three more over the next ten minutes—promises to pay me back, acknowledgments of how much I was sacrificing, statements about our debt that he’d handle once he was working.
Patricia made copies of everything.
“Here’s what I suggest,” she said. “Don’t respond to his divorce filing immediately when it comes. Give me time to build a case. If he wants to leave you after you paid his way through medical school, fine. But he’s going to compensate you for that education. Every dollar you spent, with interest.”
“Can we really do that?” I asked.
“We can try,” she said. “But, Relle, I need you to be realistic. This is going to be a fight. He’s not going to agree easily. His new girlfriend probably has money for expensive lawyers. Are you prepared for that?”
I thought about Trevor’s face when he called me simple, when he said I embarrassed him, when he dismissed six years of sacrifice with casual cruelty.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m prepared.”
Patricia smiled.
It wasn’t a warm smile.
It was the smile of someone who enjoyed a good fight.
“Then let’s get started,” she said.
Leave a Comment