“No, you don’t.”
“I do now.
Sierra told me.”
He looked down.
“I used to picture this place whenever I thought I was going to die.”
For one dangerous second, I wanted to cross the room and hold him.
My body remembered him even if my trust no longer did.
I stayed where I was.
Caleb continued.
“I pictured you opening the bedroom curtains.
Mama complaining about the coffee.
The porch.
Those stupid tomatoes.”
A small, broken laugh escaped me.
“They still don’t grow.”
He almost smiled.
Then the moment vanished.
“What happened with Sierra started because we were keeping each other alive,” he said.
“I don’t know when it became something else.”
“But it did.”
“Yes.”
“And you want the divorce.”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
This time, the answer hurt less.
Maybe because he had finally said it without an audience.
Maybe because I had stopped hoping for a different one.
I nodded.
“Then we’ll divorce.”
He looked at the folder.
“And the house?”
“The house is not payment for what you did to me.”
His brow furrowed.
“It is also not compensation for what happened to you.
It is simply the house I became responsible for while you were gone.”
I took out copies of the payment records and placed them beside the deed documents.
“I have five years of mortgage records, tax receipts, repairs, insurance payments, and refinancing documents.
Your mother’s right to remain here is protected.
Everything was handled openly and legally.”
He stared at the stack.
“You kept all of that?”
“I learned to keep everything.”
Missing husbands teach you that.
Banks teach you that.
People who whisper that maybe your husband ran away with someone else teach you that.
Proof becomes a kind of armor.
Eleanor spoke from her chair.
“You will not drag her through a fight over this house.”
Caleb looked at his mother.
“I’m your son.”
“Yes.”
Her voice cracked.
“And she became my daughter while my son was gone.”
Caleb sank into his chair.
There was no victory in his face now.
I did not feel victorious either.
