The Day My Soon-To-Be-Ex Proved Narcissistic Control Even the Smallest Drop
Six months into the nightmare, the gavel fell like a guillotine.
One moment I was still a mother in my own home. The next, a judge—on accusations so flimsy that even strangers in the hallway whispered “this can’t be real”—ordered me out. Removed. Evicted. By court order. My son’s face flashed in my mind as the bailiff waited for me to pack a suitcase. I drove away in shock, hands shaking on the wheel, telling myself this had to be a mistake that would be fixed tomorrow.
There was no tomorrow. No family in the state. No couch to crash on. For two weeks I lived out of a hotel room that smelled of bleach and regret, calling everyone I knew, voice cracking as I repeated the words: “The judge threw me out. I have nowhere to go.”
Then someone mentioned a basement in-law suite. “It’s gated. Private. Faces the lake.” I drove there in the fading light, heart hammering with the last scraps of hope I had left. The electric front gate buzzed open like a trap snapping shut. Upstairs, the main house gleamed—fresh paint, granite counters, perfect staging. Downstairs was another world: dated, dim, neglected. A cramped galley kitchen barely wide enough to turn around in. Two small bedrooms with thin carpet that smelled faintly of mildew. A tiny, disgusting bathroom tiled in faded mustard yellow that made me nauseous every time I stepped inside. A laundry closet so narrow the washer door banged against the wall when it opened. But through the sliding glass door was the lake—calm, silver, reflecting the sky like it was trying to comfort me.
For $900 a month, it would have to do. The judge had ordered Mitchell—my soon-to-be-ex, textbook narcissist—to pay me $1,000 a week in alimony. That money was supposed to be my lifeline. Instead, he turned it into a weapon.
Checks arrived whenever he felt like it. Seven days late. Ten. Fourteen. Sometimes hand-delivered to my PO box with no postage at all—because he’d charmed the postal clerk into bending the rules just for him. I stood at that counter once, tears welling, asking why my court-ordered support was being personally escorted like a favor. The clerk shrugged: “He said it was urgent.” Even the post office played favorites for Mitchell.
Every single month became a countdown to humiliation.
Every month became a slow torture of juggling bills, attorney retainers, gas, groceries. I worked hard at the school cafeteria—$420 take-home a month—wiping tables, serving chicken nuggets to other people’s children, smiling through the ache because I loved those kids. But every afternoon at 2:30, I’d drive home to that yellow-tiled dungeon, open another binder, and keep building my mountain of evidence. Transcripts. Emails. Filings. Proof after proof that Mitchell was violating the order deliberately. My attorneys? They’d send one limp email to his lawyer: “Please advise your client to comply.” Then nothing. No motion. No contempt filing. Just more waiting.
Then came the day I had $6 in my account and less than an eighth of a tank.
His check was eight days late. I couldn’t make it to work the next morning without gas. I called him, voice cracking, begging through sobs: “Mitchell, I can’t get to work tomorrow. You’re doing this on purpose. You’re going to get me fired. You’re in contempt—again.” He laughed that soft, cruel laugh I knew too well. “Fine. Meet me at the gas station by your place.”
I waited in the cold, engine off to save fuel, tears freezing on my cheeks. He pulled up, went inside without a glance, came out, and drove away. I started pumping. The handle clicked off at $3.19.
Three dollars. Nineteen cents.
I stood there under the harsh fluorescent lights, nozzle dangling in my hand, staring at the digital display until the numbers swam. The cashier—a young girl with kind eyes—saw my face when I walked in. “That’s all he paid for,” she said quietly, pity thickening her voice. I broke. Sobs ripped out of me so hard I could barely stand. I asked her for the receipt and she printed it and gently handed it to me and said, “I’m sorry”. I called my attorney from the parking lot, choking on words holding the receipt. All she managed in her high, useless Mickey Mouse squeak was, “I’ll email his lawyer tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
I dialed Mitchell next, screaming through the tears: “How can you do this to me? I’m the mother of your son!” He chuckled again. “I didn’t have to do that much, Jocelyn. I’m such a nice guy—I even dropped a few bucks in your tank. I’m not here to fill it up for you.” Then he hung up, still laughing.
Two weeks later, his high-dollar attorney filed an emergency motion claiming “changed circumstances.” The same judge who had evicted me listened, nodded, and—without a hearing that mattered—erased the $1,000-a-week alimony order completely.
In one stroke, he left me with nothing.
A woman who had stayed home raising our son for seven years, now earning $12 an hour wiping tables and serving lunch to other people’s children, suddenly had zero support. No family. No safety net. Just that dated basement, the lake that no longer felt peaceful, and the crushing knowledge that the same man who had once vowed to love me had weaponized the system so thoroughly that even the court was helping him finish the job.
And still, no one stopped it.
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