Chapter 8
I listened to the voicemail once.
Then I sent it to Evelyn and stopped listening.
I did not need to hear my husband plan my ruin again and again to prove that it had happened.
By Monday, everything felt less like an argument and more like work.
Records.
Appointments.
Written questions.
Answers that had to match documents.
Tasha met with her lawyer.
I met with mine.
The bank continued its review.
I gave a statement about the account application and the document bearing my name.
I was careful.
When I knew something, I said so.
When I did not, I said that too.
Evelyn told me the evidence mattered more than my ability to describe how betrayed I felt.
That was strangely comforting.
I did not have to cry convincingly.
I had to tell the truth.
At the studio, Imani and I finished three orders in four days.
My mother answered the phone while I worked.
Camille rebuilt the bookkeeping records.
For the first time, I could see my business without Andre standing between me and the numbers.
It was bruised.
It was not dead.
A customer posted a photograph of her restored cabinet.
Two new inquiries followed.
I stared at them longer than necessary.
Someone still wanted what I made.
That evening, Andre emailed.
No bakery box.
No baby.
No soft voice.
He accused me of damaging his reputation, interfering with the property sale, and encouraging Tasha to abandon him.
I forwarded it.
Then I returned to the chair I was sanding.
My hands shook for several minutes.
Eventually, they steadied.
A week later, Evelyn called.
The property records and account statements were in.
The suburban house had been purchased during our marriage, with funds that included money traceable to my business and our joint savings.
Tasha’s payment had come later.
The agreement he gave her had not transferred ownership.
He had sold her a promise he was not free to make.
I sat down.
Some of my worst fears had been lies too.
That did not make the truth gentle.
It made it manageable.
There were still debts to dispute.
Still losses to recover.
Still a divorce ahead.
But I had not disappeared from the house because Andre had put a copied signature on a page.
He could not simply declare me gone.
Two days later, Tasha asked if I would meet her at a café.
I almost refused.
Then I remembered that every conversation between us had cost her something too.
We sat by a window.
She looked tired.
“How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Nauseated.”
I nodded.
She gave a small, uncomfortable smile.
“That was an honest answer.”
“I appreciate those now.”
She looked down at her tea.
“He came to my cousin’s building.”
My stomach tightened.
“What happened?”
“She didn’t let him upstairs. He kept calling from outside.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. My lawyer told him to contact her about financial matters.”
She took a breath.
“I used to think boundaries were dramatic.”
“So did I.”
We sat quietly.
Then she said, “I don’t expect you to be part of the baby’s life.”
I stared at her.
“I haven’t asked.”
“I know. I just don’t want you to think I’m trying to replace what you wanted.”
The words hurt because they were thoughtful.
Because I could not turn her into a villain without ignoring the woman in front of me.
“I need time,” I said.
She nodded.
“You should take it.”
“I hope you have a healthy pregnancy.”
Her eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
That was all I could give.
It was enough for that day.
When I returned to the studio, Malik was waiting outside.
He held a folder.
“Messages,” he said. “Bank transfers. Everything I could find.”
I let him in.
He looked around at the unfinished furniture.
“He told me you were spending too much.”
I gave a tired smile.
“Apparently I had several personalities.”
Malik did not smile back.
“I should have asked you.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
I took the folder.
“Thank you for coming now.”
He paused at the door.
“My mother wants me to convince you to drop everything.”
“Will you?”
“No.”
Something loosened in my chest.
Not trust.
Possibility.
That Friday, Renee arrived alone.
I met her outside.
She looked smaller without her dining table between us.
“I listened to the voicemail,” she said.
I waited.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
“Which time?”
She lowered her eyes.
“All of them.”
I had wanted those words.
Now that they were here, they did not erase anything.
“Why did you help him?”
“He told me he would lose both houses. He said everyone would suffer.”
“So you chose me.”
She started crying.
I stayed still.
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I want to make it right.”
“Then answer every question truthfully. Return what you received. Stop asking me to protect him.”
She nodded.
I did not hug her.
I did not invite her inside.
But I did not shut the gate in her face either.
After she left, I went back to work.
My mother stood near the windows, wrapping a finished lamp.
“Was she sincere?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“That’s a fair answer.”
I looked around the studio.
May you like
For once, uncertainty did not feel like weakness.
It felt like something I was allowed to leave unresolved while I kept living.
