“He is excited about the house on Maple Street,” I said.
“He is excited about eighty-two thousand dollars of my retirement money,” my father said.
The soup sat untouched between us as the diner clock ticked toward eight-fifteen. My father reached into his flannel shirt pocket and pulled out a small white card with a phone number written in blue ink.
“Who is Ms. Lane?” I asked.
“She is an attorney in the professional building behind the grocery store,” he said. “I had her draw up a postnuptial waiver.”
I stared at the name on the card, the letters neat and sharp. “You did not tell me you were doing that.”
“I am wiring the down payment to the title company tomorrow morning,” my father said. “But the wire does not go through until Aaron signs that paper.”
He stood up, leaving three dollar bills on the laminate table, his boots heavy on the linoleum as he walked toward the cash register. I stayed in the booth, my fingers still resting on the small white card.
By eleven, the autumn sun had failed to break through the cloud cover, leaving the brick ranch house on Maple Street looking flat and cold. I stood in the empty living room, the smell of fresh yellow paint from the open cans in the hallway stinging my throat. The house was supposed to be our fresh start, a safe haven where we could raise our daughter.
Aaron was not in the living room. I followed the hollow sound of footsteps down the hallway, expecting to find him in the small square room we had set aside for the nursery.
Instead, I found him at the top of the basement stairs, a silver tape measure clipped to his belt.
“The nursery needs another coat of primer before the carpet goes in,” I said.
