Pressman was formidable. The divorce, given the criminal proceedings and the fraudulent identity, moved on a track I hadn’t anticipated—faster, cleaner, with implications for marital assets that tilted decisively in my favor. Gary’s legal team fought but lost ground. Pressman called it a clean sweep. I called it arithmetic.
There were hard weeks. I won’t pretend otherwise. Weeks where the house on Calloway Street felt less like a home I had reclaimed and more like a crime scene I was still living in. I put it on the market in the third month. Packed eleven years into boxes with the efficiency of someone who had learned to separate the evidence from the grief.