Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
“Before you told me we were too tight on money to buy the extra formula,” I said.
“I was going to put it back,” he said.
“With what?” I asked. “The joint account was empty.”
“I had a bonus coming in next quarter,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, defensive tone he used when he was backed into a corner. “I had it all planned out.”
“You planned a vacation,” I said. “You didn’t plan for us.”
He stood there, his fingers twitching against his thigh, but he did not answer.
“If I sign this, what happens to the suburban house?” he asked, looking down at the legal document.
“You can keep it, or you can sell it,” I said. “Evelyn drafted the agreement so you keep the equity, and I keep this house.”
“No alimony?”
“Just child support,” I said. “The bare minimum to feed your children.”
He picked up the silver pen resting on top of the blue folder, clicking it once, then twice. “You really want to live in this dump?”
“It is safe,” I said. “The plumbing is fixed, and the roof is sealed.”
