The Divorce Petition Reached His Office Before His Flowers Did

I did not drive to the townhouse.

I wrote its address on Nadine's question sheet. Then I went home and put my contracts in a locked case with my passport.

Travis was at the kitchen counter, cutting a coupon from the grocery flyer.

"You spent $600 today," he said.

I had paid by check and left my checkbook beside the shopping list, open to its carbon copy.

"On a bookkeeper."

His scissors stopped.

"You could have asked me."

"I did ask you about my royalties."

"And I told you. Business is complicated."

He set down the scissors.

"Don't let someone scare you into buying help you don't need."

His voice was gentle. That was how he sounded when another person could hear us through an open window.

"I'll decide what help I need," I said.

I carried my case upstairs. My hands shook so badly that I missed the lock twice.

The next morning, I met Mara Sutter in an office above a bakery. Her consultation cost $300, credited toward a $2,400 retainer if I hired her. I hired her.

That left $2,900 in my own account after Nadine's fee.

Mara wore a plain navy sweater. She let me finish without telling me I should have noticed sooner.

"I don't want to punish him for being rude at dinner," I said.

"You don't need to defend your reason for leaving. But the money claim needs proof. You brought some."

She read the old licenses and the returned envelope.

"Owning the drawings before marriage matters," she said. "So does tracing these payments. I'm not promising how every dollar will be treated. We need the full record."

"Can he sell the pictures?"

"Not merely because he's your husband. The licenses are in your name. Did you ever sign an assignment to him or this company?"

"No."

"Then we start there."

She prepared a divorce petition and a request for temporary financial relief. We asked for records, support while the case moved forward, and protection against further transfers. She also sent formal notices to preserve relevant records.

"We can request an order," she said. "A request isn't an order yet. Until a judge acts, keep watching what you can lawfully see."

I gave her the townhouse address.

"Find out through documents," I said. "I don't want to knock on someone's door and learn that way."

Two days later, a process server delivered the papers at Travis's tax office.

That afternoon, a vase of pink roses arrived at the house.

The card said, LET'S NOT MAKE OUR PRIVATE TROUBLES PUBLIC.

There was no apology. There was not even my name.

I carried the vase to the porch because the scent made me sick.

Travis came home early.

"A divorce? Over a debit card?"

"Over what happened after I asked about my income."

"You signed the company papers."

"Then produce the originals."

He looked at the case beside my chair.

"You always lose things."

"Not these."

For a moment, he seemed ready to reach for it. Instead, he put both hands in his coat pockets.

"I can make this expensive, Keiko."

I wrote down his exact words after he left the room. I sent the note to Mara. She told me to keep our contact in writing when possible.

I moved into the spare room at Beth's house that weekend. She had offered after I told her why I had gone quiet at dinner.

"I should have said something," she told me.

"You can say something now."

She helped carry my drawing board to her car.

I paid Beth $100 toward food and wrote the amount in my own notebook. She tried to hand it back.

"Let me buy what I use," I said.

She nodded and cleared a shelf for my tea. Such a small thing, that empty shelf. Nobody stood over it asking whether I needed the space.

On Monday, Mara requested the company bank records through the court process. Nadine received permission to help review the financial material that came back.

While we waited, Travis filed his response.

His financial statement described me as a dependent spouse with occasional hobby receipts. Under valuable business interests, he listed Ash Pin at zero.

Under payments for my benefit, he listed $2,140 each month for an "off-site art studio."

I read the line three times.

My studio had been our back bedroom for fourteen years. The only extra space I rented was a $45 locker for display panels, and I paid that myself.

"He signed this?" I asked.

"He did," Mara said.

Outside Beth's window, rain bent the last tall stems in her garden.

Mara's second attachment was the lease Travis had supplied to support that claimed expense.

It named the townhouse on Nadine's sheet.

Two adults had signed as occupants: Travis Rook and Lena Vale.