Part 4

Now I noticed everything. Paul’s expression hardened with impatience. “This fake vintage piece is going in the trash anyway.”

The word fake didn’t trouble me as much as trash. He could be wrong about a stone. I could have lived through an ignorant opinion about jewelry. But he had looked at something my mother wore every day and decided he could dispose of it. Then he’d placed it on another woman’s hand in the house where I was supposed to come home and grieve. I looked from him to Jessica. Neither offered it back. The room remained perfectly ordinary around us. The sofa needed its cushions straightened. There was a glass mark on the coffee table, and her coat sleeve hung over the chair where I sometimes sat grading essays. Nothing had moved enough to account for how different the house suddenly felt. I lowered the box a little. I couldn’t hold it at my chest any longer. Then I turned toward the kitchen, still carrying the sandwiches, while my mother’s ring stayed on Jessica’s hand. I set the box on the counter and kept my palms against its sides until I could trust myself to let go. Behind me, Jessica said I’d misunderstood. They’d had a difficult quarterly review. Paul was comforting her, being a supportive mentor. She tucked her left hand into her coat pocket. Paul told her to take the donation box later and drive safely. The front door closed, and I listened to her heels retreat down the steps. He poured bourbon. “You need to get a grip.” I turned toward him. He said grief had made me exhausted and emotional. He was clearing space, and I was seeing something that wasn’t there. I ran cold water over my hands. It gave me a simple thing to feel while he continued talking. He’d been carrying the marriage, he said. I’d spent weekends at the care home. There were medical costs, funeral expenses, and nothing left in savings. I looked toward the living room. His tablet lay unlocked on the sofa. On its screen was a River North penthouse listing. Two bedrooms, a balcony, sixty-five hundred dollars a month. Available November first. Two weeks away. I didn’t touch it. I could read the price from where I stood. “I need room to breathe,” Paul said. I dried my hands. “Take all the space you need.” That night, I couldn’t sleep. At the kitchen island, I logged into our joint accounts. I’d let Paul handle the monthly details for years, but the accounts were mine to examine, too. I began reading statements. A steakhouse dinner. A hotel. Overnight parking and breakfast. Transfers to an account I didn’t recognize. I checked dates against our calendar. One hotel stay fell on the weekend Mom developed pneumonia. I’d spent it beside her hospital bed, afraid to leave long enough to buy decent food. I had called Paul from the corridor. He’d said he was stuck at a leadership retreat. On the statement, there was a spa charge and an expensive bottle of wine. I sat back. The hurt came differently than I’d expected. I didn’t picture them in a room together. I remembered asking him to come, and how apologetic he’d sounded when he refused. I had thanked him for calling back. Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. I looked toward the ceiling, wanting to carry the laptop to him and demand that he explain. Barbara offered espresso and let me sit without filling the silence. Her office overlooked the river. I watched a boat moving below while she opened the trust file, grateful for something that required nothing from me. My grandfather had established the arrangement to protect Mom from my father, whose eventual departure had justified his doubts. Mom had been the lifetime beneficiary. The authority now passed to me under the succession provisions.