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He sits back, spent. Silence heavy between shuffled papers.
His lawyer asks if we are seriously going to contest the ‘ahem’ generous offer of his client?
The offer is not generous.
I relax my shoulders. Think about the last eight years together. Picture our young children. My cashier’s wage had paid for all their activities and clothes. It had bought all the non-essential but essential things: gifts, treats, the little symbols that meant love. I’d also spent time on committees, organised the reading club. I’d sat in the hospitals all night when there were broken bones and appendicitis. All the time he was away on ‘business’ with Lolita, or all the others. Ah, the others. A man in his honourable position, with such terrible little secrets.
I’m not leaving. He is.
After a lengthy pause, I nod. My lawyer pushes forward the portfolio of the flings and his other … affairs.
He forgets my former position in the corporate world. I have friends. I didn’t burn my bridges.
The lawyer’s jaw tightens, then the portfolio’s handed to his client.
His face pales as he reads.
A new document slides across the table.
There’s nothing to contest, my lawyer says. The terms are clear.
