Picking Up The Pieces

No matter how difficult it was to face, at least I had clarity: André was not coming back. I wasn’t so naïve to think all would be fine now. But I let myself believe, just for a moment, that the worst was behind me. I needed to step off this emotional rollercoaster—if only for a little while. Reality would hit me soon enough. Just let me enjoy the lull—please…

When I opened our monthly bank statement, the amount jumped off the page. Huh? From the abbreviated description I took it was a loan payment... but which loan? We paid cash for our Nissan 300ZX. Other than our mortgage we did not have a loan. Or did we… did he?

Snippets of conversations. The travel agent’s hesitant revelations. The puzzle pieces started fitting together. I hopped on my bike and rode straight to the bank, my pulse hammering. Even before I flung my bike against the nearest tree and marched to the wicket, I knew what that amount was about. I just needed confirmation. Which I received. André had taken out a loan to finance the Master’s Degree he’d been bragging about at the travel agency when he booked a one-way ticket to his new life abroad. 

He was a convincing liar, sure. But we were legally married—in community of property no less. That meant my signature should’ve been on that loan agreement—which, clearly, it wasn’t. Did the bank fall for his smooth talk and charming ways too? 

The teller led me to one of their offices to speak to one of their managers. As I sat down in a plush chair, dread crept into my chest. There was no way I was responsible for his loan. After everything I had emotionally absorbed in this relationship, was I now expected to finance his fresh start? For all I cared, he owed me. 

But the loan officer didn’t flinch. Her voice was firm: we were still married, in community of property, and legally, I was equally responsible for the debt.

It went against my every sense of fairness.

“Shouldn’t my signature also be on this contract? If he told you we were divorced, didn’t anyone verify that?”

She answered my rebuttal with a blank expression on her face. Like she’d filed my protest under ‘not my problem’ before I even finished speaking.

But I didn’t give up that easily and tried to make her understand there was no way for me to contact him. That I was trying to divorce a man who had disappeared to another country. Without a forwarding address, phone number… anything. Nothing. That I suspected he was with a certain Sarah in St. Louis, Missouri. Even his family—or so they claimed—had no idea where he’d gone. All my grief and sense of helplessness, built up over this past year, gushed out of me. I could feel my desperation spiraling, only to slam into the unmoving wall of her indifference. It was like watching someone have an emotional breakdown in public while everyone else kept waiting for their number to be called, as if nothing were happening.

She didn’t budge. I was 100% on the hook. And to make things worse, she added that the bank had the right to seize any assets in the marriage to cover their potential losses. That meant our home. And that stupid red Nissan I never wanted—but still paid half for.

No matter how badly I wanted to move on, this loan was just the beginning. I was staring down a years-long journey of divorcing a man who’d already started a new life—while I stayed behind to clean up the carnage of the old one.

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So much for peace and quiet. No rest for the weary—now was the time to get smart. After my emotional unraveling at the bank a few days ago, I could feel my inner strength returning, for the first time in years. I was done with playing nice and taking the blow. It was time for action. 

The bank didn’t waste time protecting their interests. They positioned themselves first in line for the proceeds from selling our studio. Nothing I could do about that. But the car? That was different.

An ex-colleague of André’s—disgusted by the man he once called a friend—suggested I sell'd it on the black market in Beverwijk. Me? Selling a souped-up red Nissan to some Dutch mafia guy, or whoever ran that scene—for cash? The thought alone made my knees turn into jello. But he offered to help and we devised a plan. 

A few weeks later, we drove the car to Beverwijk and sold it without incident.

The bulging envelope in my purse held more bills than I’d ever touched in my life. I could hardly close the damn thing! My plan was clear—I was only giving the bank a portion of it. Fat finger toward them. And toward André. They couldn’t prove a thing, and I felt I’d earned every extra cent. I kept the extra cash to buy a few things for my new place. And it felt great.

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This piece is an excerpt from my memoir-in-progress, with the working title:

The Woman I Had to Find: Healing What Was Never Mine to Carry.

In this book, I share my experience with abuse and generational trauma—not to blame or dwell in the past, but to offer hope. My story isn’t just mine. By writing it down, I aim to help fellow survivors find insight, clarity, and the strength to rise above what happened to them.

Giving voice to my truth, and making it bigger than myself, gives purpose to the pain I’ve lived through.

Alongside the book, I’ve founded The Inner Circle—a private, women-only space for victims of abuse and generational trauma. A place to feel heard, supported, and truly seen. We meet monthly for connection, reflection, and growth.

If you recognize yourself in any part of my story—or know someone who might—please know: you (or they) are welcome to join the Inner Circle.

There are two sessions — one in English and one in Dutch — and both are completely free to join.