“Derek says
you’ll try to take half.”
I stopped.
And there it was.
Money.
It always arrives eventually.
“The house is marital property,” I said. “We split the equity.”
“You barely care about this place.”
“I care about what I paid into it.”
“My salary—”
“Paid utilities and groceries most years. I paid the mortgage.”
She looked surprised.
That should have warned me.
After fourteen years, my wife did not know who had been paying our mortgage.
Or perhaps she did.
Perhaps she was surprised I remembered.
I left anyway.
Halfway toward the motel, Derek called.
“You think you can just walk away from her?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a coward.”
“Maybe.”
That answer bothered him.
Men like Derek need resistance.
Without it, their aggression has nowhere theatrical to go.
