Chapter 7
"No."
"Please."
"Emily, this is too much."
"It's a little more than a year's salary."
"I can't take this."
"You were here."
Her eyes filled.
I continued before my voice failed.
"When I couldn't sleep, you made tea. When my back hurt, you warmed those ridiculous towels. When Vincent missed the childbirth class, you went with me because I didn't want to sit alone."
"That's not something you pay someone for."
"I know."
I closed her fingers around the envelope.
"That's why I'm giving it to you."
She started crying.
So did I.
We stood in the empty nursery holding each other while Lily slept in her carrier beside us.
It was the most honest moment I had experienced in that house.
Before leaving, I went upstairs to the bedroom.
The room looked almost unchanged.
Vincent's watch case sat on the dresser.
His books remained beside the bed.
His side of the closet was untouched.
For years, I had arranged my life around his return.
I knew which lamp he preferred turned on.
Which Scotch he drank after difficult meetings.
Which pillow he threw aside because he hated sleeping too high.
Which nights he wanted conversation and which nights silence was safer.
Marriage had turned me into an expert on Vincent Moretti.
I wondered whether he could have answered five equally specific questions about me.
I opened the nightstand drawer.
Inside was the divorce agreement.
I had contacted an attorney from the hospital.
Not one of Vincent's attorneys.
Not anyone connected to his family.
A woman named Frances Hale whom my mother had known years earlier.
She had listened to me without interrupting.
Then she said, "Emily, don't sign anything Vincent's people give you until I've reviewed it."
"I understand."
"Do you have independent assets?"
"Yes."
"Property?"
"A house in Oak Park. It belonged to my mother."
"Good."
"Frances?"
"Yes?"
"I don't want his money."
There was a pause.
"You're entitled to marital property."
"I know."
"We can discuss that later."
"I want my daughter safe. I want a fair custody arrangement. I want out."
Her voice softened.
"Then that's what we'll work toward."
The papers on my nightstand were not the final divorce decree.
They were the first formal agreement and petition prepared for service.
My signature sat at the bottom.
Emily Carter Moretti.
I looked at it for several seconds.
Then I placed the documents on Vincent's nightstand.