Part 6

He needed to move out, he explained. My grief, our tension, the financial pressure: he couldn’t keep living this way. Sarah watched me with concern that seemed intended mainly for her brother. He proposed splitting the twelve thousand dollars left in savings. Six thousand each. He would find a small apartment and generously allow me to remain in the house. He might even contribute toward electricity. I looked around the room. He was offering permission to stay somewhere he didn’t own. Sarah said I needed to let him breathe. “Most people wouldn’t cope this well with so much financial baggage.” I nearly asked her which part of burying my mother she considered baggage. Instead, I put my feet flat on the floor. “Moving out is your decision,” I told Paul. “Send the financial proposal in writing.” He looked surprised, then pleased. An email would avoid confusion, I explained. Greg nodded, relieved that we were being adult about things. They left believing I’d accepted Paul’s version of the marriage. I remained in my chair until I heard their car pull away. It hurt to be spoken about that way in front of people who’d known me fourteen years. I forwarded his subsequent email to the lawyers. Agreeing to receive a proposal wasn’t agreeing to sign it. By Tuesday, Paul had packed bags. He moved them into the entryway with an energy I hadn’t seen him bring to household work in months. I left to run errands rather than watch him enjoy his departure. At a coffee shop, my phone rang. “Did you forget to pay the card?” He was trying to complete a rental payment. His available credit had changed, and the transaction wouldn’t go through. “I didn’t forget a bill.” I explained that I’d separated my future financial support from his spending. “You can’t do that now.” “You’re arranging your own apartment.” He called me vindictive. Then he demanded I contact the bank. I watched rain gather on the window and waited until he stopped. “You’ll need to discuss your account with the issuer.” He told me to meet him that evening at the bakery on Sherman Avenue. He’d printed our separation terms. “Bring a pen.” After the call, I stayed seated until my coffee was finished. It was cold, but I drank it anyway. I didn’t want to arrive anywhere feeling chased. That afternoon, I collected the documents Barbara’s office had prepared and reviewed the limits of what I could say. A proposed financial adjustment wasn’t a judgment. Ownership needed documentation. Any dispute over occupancy would follow legal process. The ring, however, was not his to give away. At six, I took a booth toward the back. Paul arrived late, carrying a portfolio and announcing another meeting afterward. He put two stapled pages before me. The terms had changed. He now needed eight thousand dollars for housing. I could keep four. In exchange for his supposed interest in the house, I would take responsibility for Mom’s expenses. “You said six thousand on Sunday.” “Deposits are higher than I thought.” He said it as though arithmetic should yield to inconvenience. I read the pages without touching his pen. There were sentences about finality, fairness, and mutual agreement. None described a mutual decision. Once, I would have started negotiating from the figure he’d given me. That evening, I noticed I hadn’t yet agreed that his starting point deserved to be mine. He tapped the signature line. I took the manila envelope out of my bag and placed it beside his papers. “We need to discuss what’s missing.” He looked at the envelope, irritated. I opened it carefully. Somewhere behind the counter, an order number was called twice. For a moment, I was grateful for the noise. It made it easier to begin. I slid the highlighted statements across the table.