‘Great news! We have a joint mortgage’.
That was the text my partner sent me in December 2017 to announce that we were now financially linked and owned a home together.
I felt sick to my stomach.
What followed was years of economic and joint mortgage abuse and a lengthy legal battle before I could be set free. And I want everyone, including banks, to know the warning signs.
I first met Tom* when we were teenagers. We were friends for several years before getting together.
For the first couple of years of our relationship, we lived separately but he soon said that he wanted us to rent a flat. I loved him, but was reluctant.
I wanted to marry him eventually, but I wanted us to one day buy a place together and I had already started saving up for my own place instead – by January 2014 I’d banked £20,000.
Finally, I could purchase a flat in London at a good price with a 10% deposit.
But Tom and I’s relationship was ending. So when I moved to my new flat, I told him it officially marked the end of ‘us’.
While it was a sad ending, I also couldn’t wait to renovate and transform my flat into a beautiful cosy home all for myself.
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However, after a sudden death in his family, Tom said he had to move in with me claiming that he ‘needed’ our relationship.’ As much as I didn’t want to get back together, I felt bad, so I obliged.
He moved in and I supported him emotionally while taking out further loans so I could afford to make the flat habitable. Every spare moment was spent re-painting, wallpapering or dealing with builders.
My efforts were worth it though as, within a year, the flat’s value increased by £100,000. I felt a huge sense of pride.
Around this time, Tom, who had always been opposed to us getting married, began to talk more and more about the idea.
But the relationship still felt over to me.
Tom kept pretending everything was fine and I felt I was going crazy (which I now know is a sign of gaslighting).
Then, in December 2016, after two years of living together in my flat, he proposed.
Badly.
He did it in a bird watching hut at a national trust park on a wet and dreary day and, unsurprisingly, I said no.
Undeterred, he proposed again about four months later, taking me on a trip to Bruges. This time though, I said yes. I felt pressure to say yes because he’d clearly made more of an effort with the proposal. Also, part of me wanted to still believe the romantic idea that he did love me and this was his way to prove it.
But that’s when everything changed.
Almost immediately after the ring was on my finger he became fixated on money.
Not only did he ask me for half the cost of the engagement ring, he began to pester me constantly about putting his name on the mortgage.
The mortgage and deeds were in my name and, though he had contributed to repayments and bills since moving in, I didn’t want to change this arrangement because I knew he couldn’t be trusted with the responsibility.
He never let up though, even insisting that I was bad with maths, which gradually chipped away at my confidence until eventually I gave in.
The mortgage meeting, when his name was added, is not something I’ll soon forget.
Removing him from the mortgage and getting my property back solely in my name took five years
At no point did anyone from the bank ask me privately if I was comfortable with this change. If they had, I would have said no, that I felt like he was taking over.
So that text, confirming that I was no longer in sole control of my finances (or my life), felt like a dagger to my heart. He was smug, I was devastated.
That was the moment that I realised I had to get out and, with the wedding day looming, I needed to do it quickly.
Over the next two months I repeatedly asked him to cancel the wedding but he ignored me.
All the while he had full control of the joint account and all bills.
Eventually, I told him I’d met somebody else, which wasn’t strictly true but it was all I could think of to get him out. He told me I deserved to be punished and made to suffer.
And suffer I did.
Adding him to the mortgage seemed to take only a matter of weeks, but removing him and getting my property back solely in my name took five years.
I initially offered him £15,000 to remove his name from the mortgage and walk away without a court battle, but he refused. I was then forced to gather as much evidence of his abuse as I could – my barrister even found numerous transactions going out of my account to his – and prepare for a lengthy legal battle.
It was only as we were about to go to court that he backed down and said he wanted to take my original offer.
By then though – due to paying the mortgage and solicitor fees without any income as I’d lost my job as a result of developing PTSD from our abusive relationship – I’d put myself into financial difficulty and no longer had access to that money.
Once again, he threatened legal action for my inability to pay.
I was at my absolute lowest and even contemplated taking my own life due to the crushing emotional and financial strain. Had it not been for my dad – who was so worried about me that he took £15k from his pension to pay him off – I’m not sure what would have happened.
Even after this was seemingly settled, the bank still wouldn’t allow him to be removed from the mortgage and deeds until I could prove I was a high enough earner to cover it. His hold over me continued.
It wasn’t until April 2023 that I was able to get a new mortgage and the deeds back solely in my name.
While I was relieved and grateful to the bank for helping me (despite a compromised credit rating) I can’t help but feel it could have all been avoided had the bank just asked a few questions or spotted the signs of financial abuse sooner.
Tom weaponised my mortgage agreement as part of a campaign of coercive control over me. Sadly, I’m not alone.
According to the charity Surviving Economic Abuse, joint mortgage abuse is a growing phenomenon and affects 1 in 8 women. But we can change that with help.
In the years since I broke up with Tom, I’ve rebuilt my life and career as a personal trainer and have contributed to the domestic abuse bill to make economic abuse a recognised crime.
We’ve got a long way to go, but if sharing my story helps highlight the problem, helps someone recognise the early subtle signs of economic abuse before it becomes joint mortgage abuse and ultimately stops it happening to others, then I’d say that’s time well spent.
*Names have been changed
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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