Grant made sure I looked like the problem.
For six months, he told everyone I was unstable, difficult, impossible to live with. What he didn’t mention were the hotel receipts I found in his truck. Or how he emptied our joint account just weeks before filing for divorce. Or how his family sided with him before I even saw the paperwork.
By the time we stood in court, I had already been cast as the bitter wife who should feel lucky the settlement was “generous.”
That word still stung.
He kept everything that mattered—the house, the lake cabin his father had “gifted” us but never legally shared, and the company shares I helped build from the ground up. Years of bookkeeping, payroll, and running operations meant nothing on paper. All I walked away with was a small payout, temporary child support, and my old SUV.
