Small. Quiet. Grateful for scraps.
I wasn’t that woman anymore.
I pulled out my phone and called Mr. Brennan.
“I want to sell the house in White Plains. The one Robert took.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. And I want the proceeds donated to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. The nursing scholarship fund.”
“Done. Anything else?”
“Yes. I need you to prepare divorce papers for Robert.”
A pause.
“Mrs. Hayes, you can’t file for—”
“Not for me. For him. I want everything ready. Division of property. Terms if needed. The works. When he’s ready to choose, I want to make it easy.”
Mr. Brennan was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “You’re not who I expected.”
“Neither am I.”
Robert showed up at the motel on July third.
I was folding laundry in the bathroom, underwear and T-shirts I had hand-washed in the sink, when someone knocked.
I opened the door.
He looked terrible. Unshaven, red-eyed, wearing the same wrinkled polo shirt he’d had on three days earlier.
“Mom.”
I didn’t invite him in. I just stood there holding a damp towel.
“Can we talk? Please?”
I stepped aside.
He came in, looked around the tiny room, the sagging bed, the stained carpet, the mini-fridge humming in the corner, and his face crumpled.
