Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
He stood there for a long moment, the pen balanced between his fingers. He looked toward the nursery again, where a soft coo came through the open door, followed by my mother’s low, comforting voice.
“I don’t want a public fight, Chloe,” he said.
“Neither do I,” I said. “That is why the papers are exactly as we discussed.”
“You’re making a mistake,” he whispered, but his hand was already moving toward the paper.
He bent over the table, his shoulders tense under the linen shirt, and wrote his name on the line at the bottom of the third page. He flipped to the fourth page and signed again, his signature quick and sharp.
I took the pen from his hand. My fingers were steady as I signed my own name below his, the ink dark and permanent on the white paper.
When I finished, I looked down at the gold wedding ring on my left hand. I slid it over my knuckle, the metal sliding easily off my skin. I placed the ring in the center of the blue folder, right over our signatures.
