Chapter 3
Earlier that morning, practically buzzing with nervous energy before the final closing meeting, I had texted him: I have massive news. Coming home early. His response had been a simple, solitary thumbs-up emoji. It was typical Michael. After thirty-eight years of marriage, you stopped expecting poetry via text message.
As I turned onto Maple Street, the tires hissing softly against the damp asphalt, I noticed an unfamiliar car parked directly across from our driveway. It was a silver Honda Civic, maybe five or six years old, with a small dent in the rear bumper. Our neighbor, Mrs. Patterson, was a retired piano teacher who hosted a revolving door of students, book club members, and church friends, so a stray car on the street didn’t trigger any alarms in my mind.
May you like
I pulled into the driveway, my eyes lingering on the thick blanket of autumn leaves covering our front lawn. Michael had been meaning to rake them for three weekends straight. A warm, giddy smile spread across my face. Maybe now we’ll just hire a landscaping crew, I thought. Maybe we’ll hire someone to do the gutters, too. Maybe we’ll hire someone to do absolutely everything. We are sixty-two and sixty-four years old. We are done striving.
I grabbed my purse and the thick leather folio containing the closing documents, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had rehearsed this reveal the entire drive home. Should I pour him a glass of his favorite Macallan first? Should I make him guess the final sale price? Should I just drop the folder on his desk and let the paperwork do the talking?
