MyStory

My Story: A Father’s Journey Through Divorce in Utah

In December 2021, I told my then-wife something I had been holding in for too long: our marriage needed to change. I made it clear that we were on the edge of collapse and that saving it would require effort from both of us. We agreed to attend marriage counseling. I emphasize we because although we sat in the same room, only one of us truly participated. On what would become our final session, the counselor turned to me and asked a question I’ll never forget:

“Why do you want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with you?”

That question hit hard. Days later, I learned there was another man in my wife’s life—someone who wasn’t just in her life, but in our bed while I was away for work. That marked the end of our marriage in every meaningful way.

By March 2022, I had reached a breaking point. My wife came home at 2 a.m., claiming she had "fallen asleep" on a friend's couch—something that had become a pattern. I made the decision to separate. I found a nearby apartment, paid a deposit, and began searching for a lawyer—not because I wanted one, but because I needed to understand what I was facing. My goal was to avoid lawyers entirely if possible. I just wanted to know: what would she be entitled to?

After speaking with three attorneys that day, I got the picture: half. But I also learned one critical thing—don’t move out. That advice changed the course of what came next.

Strategic Preparation

To be honest, I’d suspected for years that divorce might be in our future. I had made certain decisions during our marriage with this possibility in mind—not to undermine my wife, but to protect myself in case things turned contentious. For example:

• We never had joint bank accounts.

• I didn’t give her a set monthly allowance.

• The house was purchased in my name only—both the mortgage and the title.

These choices weren’t made out of spite. They were strategic, and they turned out to be essential. My hope at the time was still to draft a fair settlement and avoid conflict—a clean break where we could both heal, move on, and continue co-parenting with respect.

The Beginning of the Legal Fight

Before diving deeper into this story, let me say this clearly:
I loved my wife.
I chose her to be my partner and the mother of my children. But years of imbalance—no support, selfishness, and disrespect -led to resentment. And resentment, in my experience, is like cancer: slow to spread at first, but deadly over time. It eats away at joy, connection, and purpose.

Despite everything, the one thing that gave me strength was my children. I would often lie awake at night thinking, If the only good to come from this marriage is our kids, then it was worth it. If I have to fight through hell just to be the father they need, then so be it. I never wanted anything more than to be a Dad.

The First Signs of Trouble

In March 2022, I informed my wife that we were done. I officially moved into the mother-in-law apartment attached to our home—separated physically, but still under the same roof.

In June, she filed for divorce. But instead of following legal procedure and having me served properly, she casually left the documents on my bed with a note saying it was “for my convenience.” At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I believed we were trying to keep things amicable.

What I didn’t realize then is that this was her attempt to start the 21-day clock that allows a court to grant a default judgment if no response is filed. Fortunately, she never submitted proof of service—something required by law to start that countdown.

Within days, I retained a lawyer. We learned that a petition had been filed but not properly served. I accepted service officially, and now the real legal process had begun.

My Attempt at Resolution

Before things escalated further, I extended an olive branch. I drafted a settlement offer—fair, logical, and crafted around the groundwork I had laid during our marriage:

• Separate finances made the division clear.

• She had use of my credit card during the marriage, not a set “income,” which protected me from exaggerated alimony claims.

• Though the home was purchased with marital funds, it was in my name only, meaning she was owed a buyout, not half ownership.

Every offer I made included a generous financial settlement and a clean break. Her response? Silence. No counteroffer. Nothing. The message was clear—she was preparing for war.

Mediation and a Missed Opportunity

The court required us to attempt mediation. It was conducted via Zoom with a neutral third-party—a corporate attorney who specialized in finances. The session lasted eight hours, with each party in separate rooms and communications relayed by the mediator. It was exhausting and ultimately unsuccessful.

But it was also revealing. The mediator’s private feedback to both sides helped clarify reality. He spent most of his time with my wife because her demands were far removed from what a court would likely consider reasonable.

What became obvious was this:

• She wanted to remain in the marital home indefinitely—or be overpaid to leave it.

• She wanted minimal work obligations, despite being fully employable.

• She wanted a significant, long-term payout from me, regardless of practicality or fairness.

After mediation failed, my attorney and I drafted a final offer. One that addressed her concerns while maintaining the core principles I was willing to stand on. It was never acknowledged.

Instead, she filed a motion for temporary orders, packed with lies, unsubstantiated claims, and a demand for everything:

• Full use of the house,

• 80/20 physical custody,

• $5,000/month in alimony and child support.

My First Time in Court

This was my first direct experience with Utah’s family court system. The hearing was a disorganized mess from the start. Our case had been mistakenly left off the commissioner’s docket, and we were rushed through proceedings with little preparation.

Commissioner Christina Wilson seemed unfamiliar with the details. She shuffled through paperwork while asking basic questions. My lawyer barely spoke. I wasn’t asked a single question. And yet, I watched as my ex’s attorney made sweeping, baseless claims—most of which were inconsistent and clearly not supported by any evidence.

To my relief, the commissioner postponed her ruling and scheduled a follow-up hearing one week later.

What Came Next

In that WebEx hearing, I was muted—just an observer. Commissioner Wilson dismissed two of the three accusations against me outright and “punted” the third to the judge. Then came the rulings:

• $2,795/month in combined child support and alimony

• 60/40 custody, based on a job I no longer held

• I was ordered to move out of my own home within 45 days

The financial foundation of my life had been ripped out from under me. The court’s income assessment inflated my earnings by including one-time bonuses and retroactive union pay—but didn’t apply the same logic to my ex. They excluded my January income entirely, citing a job title change from "Trainee" to "Employed."

The difference between what I actually made and what they said I made? Over $2,200/month. That miscalculation alone pushed my finances over the edge.

So, according to the court, I was now making $5,736 per month—on paper. But in reality, my actual average monthly take-home pay was closer to $3,500. That’s a difference of $2,200 per month, a discrepancy that wasn’t just a clerical error—it was a decision with real-world consequences that nearly broke me.

Let me make this painfully clear: the court calculated my income by cherry-picking two unusually high paychecks, which included a one-time union contract payout and a yearly bonus—neither of which were guaranteed to ever happen again. Then they conveniently ignored my January income, where I was still classified as a "trainee" (as if bills wait until you're fully promoted). The logic behind this decision was baffling, and even my attorney objected immediately. But Commissioner Wilson shut it down, stating that no objections would be heard during that session. If I wanted to contest her calculations, I’d need to file a formal objection, spend thousands more in legal fees, and wait months for a hearing—with no guarantee of success.

So now I was “earning” $2,200 more each month than I actually was—at least on paper. Based on that, I was ordered to pay $2,795 per month in alimony and child support, starting immediately.

Let’s do the math together:

• My actual income: ~$3,500/month

• Court-ordered support: $2,795/month

• Mortgage (still in my name): $2,550/month

• Rent for new place (condo): ~$3,000/month (including utilities, storage, furniture for the kids, etc.)

Even using the court's inflated number of $5,736/month:

• That means I now owed $8,345 every month just in rent, mortgage, and support payments.

• That left me with a monthly shortfall of at least $2,609, and that doesn’t include food, gas, clothing, kids' expenses, or legal bills.

In short, I was legally required to spend more than I earned—even if you used the court’s flawed numbers.

Let me ask the obvious question: how does that math make sense to anyone?

To the court, this was just another line item in a docket. But to me, it was survival. It was sleepless nights. It was choosing between groceries and gas. It was selling off personal possessions to make up the difference. It was fear—fear that I’d end up losing everything I had worked for, not because of a failed marriage, but because of a system that refused to acknowledge basic financial reality.

I wasn’t just struggling to make ends meet—I was drowning in obligations that were created from incorrect data, unchecked accusations, and rushed rulings.

And the irony? My ex never once followed the temporary orders in full. She never transferred all the utilities into her name. She never provided proof of expenses. She never acted in good faith to uphold her side of the court’s mandate. Yet, the burden of compliance fell squarely on me.

I devised a simple system out of desperation:

• Each month, I subtracted the $2,550 mortgage from the $2,795 court-ordered support.

• Then I deducted the utilities still in my name (which she was supposed to pay, but never transferred—typically around $90–$125/month).

• The remaining balance—roughly $100–$150—was what I paid her each month.

Was it perfect? No.
Was it technically compliant? Yes.
Was it sustainable? Absolutely not.

I was surviving, not living.

The $2,200 mistake the court made wasn’t just a math error—it was a failure to understand the human cost.
It forced me to deplete savings, max out credit, and live in constant anxiety. It penalized me for working, for documenting, for staying calm, and for trying to do things the right way. And it sent a clear message: in a system like this, truth doesn’t always matter—positioning does.

Police and Child Protection Services Get Involved

There are two major events that I intentionally left out earlier—two critical incidents that took place after our mediation but before we went to court for temporary orders. These events are documented in Layton Police Reports #23-07101 and #23-09068.

The first of those reports—#23-07101—stems from what happened on March 17, 2023.

I was out of town for work when I got a call from my oldest daughter, who was—and still is—a minor. The call came in at 10:30 PM, which was unusual. She had never called me just to chat before, especially not that late. But that’s exactly what she said she wanted to do—just talk. So we did, and I appreciated the moment.

We spoke for about 45 minutes, and what struck me was how quiet the house seemed in the background. That surprised me. It was St. Patrick’s Day, and knowing my ex, I half-expected there to be a party or people over while I was away. But everything sounded calm.

After we hung up, I got a text from a friend of mine who happened to be at a bar that my ex frequented. She told me she’d just seen my ex there with her boyfriend and asked if I wanted her to take any pictures to document it. I declined—told her no, but thanked her for the heads-up.

That’s when something clicked.

I realized I had never actually asked my daughter if there was a babysitter at the house. So I texted her and asked, “Who’s watching you and your siblings?” Her reply stunned me: “No one. But Mom’s just around the corner at her sister’s house. She’ll be home in 20 minutes.”

I knew that wasn’t true.

I followed up and asked, “When did Mom leave?” She said, “Around 8:30.” Now it was nearing 11:30 PM. That meant my three kids had been home alone for at least three hours, likely longer.

I was alarmed—not only because my children were unsupervised late at night, but because my ex was apparently drinking at a bar while doing so.

I called the Layton Police Department and explained the situation: I was out of state, my three minor children were home alone late at night, and their mother was reportedly at a local bar. The dispatcher took it seriously and immediately dispatched three officers—two to my home, to check on the kids, and one to the bar, to find and speak with my ex.

When the officers arrived, they found exactly what I had feared: three minor children alone in a house late at night, unsupervised and unaware of when—or if—their mother would return. They were fine, thankfully. Scared, but safe. The police stayed with them and waited until my ex returned home.

When she did, she was visibly intoxicated and agitated, according to the officers’ report. She had been out drinking at a local bar with her boyfriend, having left the children alone for hours. She offered no legitimate explanation for where she’d been or why she hadn’t arranged for someone to watch the kids. She was annoyed—not apologetic.

The officers documented everything in the report and told me they were actively looking for a legal reason to arrest her for child neglect or abandonment. But here’s the problem: Utah doesn’t have a law that clearly defines how old a child must be to be left home alone. So even though every common-sense indicator screamed “negligence,” there was no statute they could act on.

What the police could do, however, was report the incident to Utah’s Division of Child and Family Services (DCFS)—and they did. I received confirmation that a report had been filed with CPS, and that a formal record now existed documenting what happened that night.

Then, on April 8th, less than a month after the first incident and two days before we were to appear in court for Temporary Orders, Police Report #23-09068 was filed.

Once again, I was out of town for work. I received a notification from a motion-activated camera I had recently installed in my downstairs bedroom. I’d put that camera in about a week prior because over the past few months, personal items of mine had been disappearing—clothes, gear, random belongings—and I couldn’t get a straight answer about where they were going.

When I opened the alert, I saw a live feed of my ex’s boyfriend—someone I never gave permission to be in my home—entering my bedroom and going through my personal belongings. I watched, in real time, as he picked up a pair of Oakley sunglasses from my dresser and slid them into his pocket. That’s when I called the Layton Police Department again.

An officer was dispatched to the home.

When they arrived, the situation was already chaotic. There was a party going on just outside my bedroom, loud and crowded. My ex was clearly intoxicated when she stormed into the bedroom during the officer’s visit. She began yelling at the officer, trying to take control of the situation despite being completely out of control herself. She then located my hidden camera and knocked it to the floor, presumably to prevent it from recording anything further.

This is the environment I was dealing with in the lead-up to her filing her motion for temporary orders. She would soon try to portray me as the one creating instability—when in reality, this was the level of dysfunction and disorder I was navigating on a regular basis.

And still, nothing changed. None of this was admissible in court. This would all have to be documented and dealt with later.

Despite the police report, the CPS filing, and the complete disregard for our kids' safety, my ex faced no immediate legal consequences. The court’s temporary orders would remain intact. She retained her 60% custody. I continued paying $2,795 a month to a woman who had literally abandoned our children to drink at a bar, and whose neglect had now been formally documented by law enforcement.

I can’t describe the rage I felt—not just at her, but at a system that appeared completely indifferent to the actual safety of my children. Despite being armed with these police reports, the weaponizing of our temporary orders by her, only getting to see my kids 10 days a month, it would be over a year before we would check all the boxes to get a court date in front of the judge. A lot can happen in a year and a lot did.

The Cohabitation, the Guardian ad Litem, and the Private Investigator

After I was forced to move out of the house, it became increasingly clear that my ex’s boyfriend was spending a lot of time there—likely living there full-time. I began noticing fresh oil stains on the driveway, left behind by his old truck that leaked constantly. I had seen the same stains when I was still living in the home, so I knew what they were. On the days I dropped off or picked up my kids, the marks would often be fresh, even though his truck wasn’t parked anywhere visible. It didn’t take long to figure out that they were hiding the truck nearby—sometimes in a church parking lot around the corner, or tucked into side streets—just to avoid being caught.

Even still, I’d occasionally pass him on the road when I was taking my kids to school. He was always headed out from the direction of my house. There was no doubt in my mind that he was living there, but I didn’t know how to prove it—at least not without making things worse for myself.

In addition to the cohabitation, they were also taking vacations together, and he regularly attended my children’s sporting and school events. But he wasn’t there to support the kids. He was there to bait me, to provoke a reaction, and I refused to give him one. Still, something had to be done.

My attorney suggested that we request the appointment of a Guardian ad Litem (GAL)—a neutral, court-appointed attorney whose sole focus is the best interest of the children in cases involving neglect, abuse, or custody concerns. Our request was based on what we believed to be clear signs of neglect, the chaotic environment in which the children were living, and a custody arrangement that unfairly penalized me.

We filed our motion. My ex objected. It took three months before a court date was set, again in front of Commissioner Christina Wilson.

As is customary before such hearings, both sides were expected to exchange evidence and discuss the core arguments. This was where the police reports were finally supposed to come into play. We felt we had a solid case and expected the court to honor our request for the GAL.

But just minutes before we were due in the commissioner’s chambers, my ex’s attorney pulled my lawyer aside. They proposed a bargain: if we agreed not to bring up the police reports or allegations of neglect during this motion, they would withdraw their objection to the GAL. I didn’t like it. But my attorney reminded me—the goal that day was to get the GAL appointed, not to argue the larger case. I reluctantly agreed.

Commissioner Wilson approved the request, and a GAL was appointed.

Unfortunately, my experience with the GAL turned out to be deeply disappointing. While she eventually recommended 50/50 custody, she seemed to miss the bigger picture. She overlooked several reports from third-party witnesses who described frequent parties at the home, where alcohol, drugs, and smoke (vape and cigarette) were common. One babysitter even reported naked men running around the backyard, while screaming children were ignored inside.

I felt helpless, angry, and dangerously close to my breaking point.

But rather than let rage drive my actions, I leaned on my support system—friends and family who kept me grounded and focused. With their help, I decided to take a smarter route: I hired a private investigator who specialized in cohabitation cases.

Over the course of four months, the PI and his team documented, video recorded, GPS tracked, and surveilled both my ex and her boyfriend. The result? A 114-page report that proved, beyond reasonable doubt, that he was living in the home. Under Utah law, anyone receiving spousal support is not allowed to remarry or cohabit with a romantic partner. If they do, alimony legally ends.

The investigation wasn’t cheap—$25,000—but it was worth every cent, especially if the court recognizes the findings and allows me to recover some of the cost.

In December 2024, we filed a motion to terminate alimony based on the PI’s report. The evidence showed that not only was her boyfriend living in the house, but he also had full access when my ex wasn’t home, was handling household responsibilities like mowing the lawn and maintaining the sprinkler system, and was present 74% of the time—far exceeding the 50% threshold for cohabitation under Utah law. He attended family events, went on vacations, and fully participated in the daily routine of the household.

The court date was set for March 2025, again before Commissioner Wilson. But here’s something most people don’t realize: when filing a motion in Utah, you're restricted to 25 pages, most of which must be spent summarizing legal arguments and relevant case law. That left us no space for the full investigative report. Instead, we attached a 2-page affidavit from the PI, summarizing his findings and offering to present full evidence if requested.

We were confident. Commissioner Wilson had ruled in favor of my ex during temporary orders—even without any evidence on her side. We had substantial proof. But we were wrong again.

Rather than rule, Commissioner Wilson passed the matter to the judge who was scheduled to hear our final divorce case the following month. Worse, she also granted the opposing counsel a 90-day window to hold an evidentiary hearing. My ex’s attorney admitted he needed time to figure out “how to get his client out of this mess.” He requested time to comb through the material and depose my PI.

Despite my attorney’s objection—not to the hearing itself, but to the delay—Commissioner Wilson granted the request. Our April court date was scrapped. Discovery was reopened, as my ex had previously ignored discovery requests throughout the case without penalty.

A week later, we received our new court date: October 2025—seven months away.

It was a devastating blow.

What I haven’t mentioned until now is that my ex and her attorney have employed a consistent strategy from day one: delay, delay, delay. The longer the case drags on, the longer she stays protected under the temporary orders—orders that have given her both financial and custodial advantages she never earned and does not deserve. Orders that financially devastate me.

And at this point, they’ve become experts at playing that game.

Then — A Plot Twist

Less than two weeks after our appearance before Commissioner Wilson—and with still over two months left on the 90-day window for the evidentiary hearing—my ex’s attorney suddenly resigned from the case. No explanation. Just a notice that he could no longer represent her.

So now what?

Whether she had legal representation or not, it didn’t change the timeline. The 90-day evidentiary window remained, and she was still required to comply with the discovery requests. My attorney gave her 21 days to find new counsel before she was to be deposed on Day 22.

Three days before the scheduled deposition, she emailed my lawyer—not me—asking for a three-week extension, claiming she was struggling to retain a new attorney. We declined.

She showed up anyway, and the deposition proceeded as scheduled.

During the deposition, she demonstrated a pattern of lying under oath about nearly everything. Even when presented with direct, contradictory evidence, she doubled down. When she couldn’t come up with an answer she would just say “her lawyer told her to do it”. Among the admissions and contradictions in her sworn testimony:

• She denied cohabitation, despite being shown the 114-page private investigator’s report.

• She admitted to regularly stealing alcohol from her employer.

• She denied committing insurance fraud, and when shown the evidence she said she didn’t know it was fraud.

• She admitted she never fully read the court’s temporary orders, despite relying on them heavily to justify her actions.

• She blamed her former attorney for most of her decisions, claiming she only acted on his advice and that he had "found a loophole" to avoid compliance with prior discovery requests.

• She admitted she was unable to afford legal counsel and that this was the reason she had lost her attorney and couldn’t retain a new one, despite taking several recent vacations to DisneyWorld, Las Vegas, and multiple cruises to the Caribbean and Mexico.

• Finally, she swore under oath that this time, she would comply with all discovery obligations.

And then… nothing.

The 90-day period expired with no evidentiary hearing ever requested. She made no legal argument, presented no contradictory evidence, and never responded to or challenged the investigative report in any formal way.

She also did not comply with discovery—again.

Instead, she sent over random screenshots of old text messages from over three years ago. They were irrelevant, misleading, and a weak attempt to intimidate or derail the process. Ironically, some of them actually supported my case more than hers.

Then, finally, on July 18th of this year, the court had had enough.

The judge found her in contempt of court and ordered her to:

• Pay my legal fees related to the last motion filed.

• Fully comply with all discovery within 14 days—or face additional sanctions.

14 days ended on August 1st 2025….. and my ex is now in contempt twice. Whatever that means. My guess is I will find out when we actually see that judge in late October.

On August 7th, we had one last round of mediation, this time with a judge (not our judge). My ex is still unrepresented but some how she managed to get the GAL and the judge to argue for her on her behalf. My attorney and I had two prerequisites for this mediation. 1. 50/50 physical custody and 2. to set a move out date for my ex to vacate the home. As both of these items are a massive disadvantage to me, and a massive advantage for her. If those two items had been agreed upon we would have actually made some good progress and could have potentially avoided court. The mediation judge seemed to only want to focus on requests being made by may ex, on items that we had already disclosed we would not be mediating on if the first two prerequisites were not met. All the judge did was essentially offer her the same settlement offer I had previously made her of which my ex denied of which she denied again. It was yet another giant waste of time and a giant waste of money.

Next stop…. the final showdown in late October.

Stay Tuned for more as is happens!