Later that afternoon, I found myself sitting across from a financial advisor, an appointment I had hastily arranged. The office was sterile and clinical, a stark contrast to the chaos I felt inside. The advisor, a woman in her forties with a no-nonsense demeanor, glanced over the paperwork I had brought with me.
“These accounts,” she began, tapping her pen against the statement, “have been consolidated under a single name. Your spouse’s name.” Her words were precise, each one landing with a weight I hadn’t anticipated.
I nodded, trying to appear composed, but inside, a knot of anxiety tightened. “What does that mean for our finances? For me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
She paused, considering her response. “It means your access is limited unless you have their explicit permission.” Her eyes met mine, offering a flicker of empathy amidst the procedural formalities.
I swallowed hard, the implications settling over me like a heavy fog. The sense of security I had always taken for granted was slipping away, replaced by a landscape I no longer recognized.
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