Felix went quiet.
Then he answered.
“It represented the idea that you had nothing.”
“Yes.”
“That everything was mine.”
“Yes.”
“And therefore, in her mind, everything could be taken from you.”
“Yes.”
“She wanted you standing in an empty house believing she had stripped you of everything.”
“Yes.”
“And you let the truck leave anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Because the furniture wasn’t the house.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“Rachel, I’m sorry.”
For the first time, the apology didn’t sound rehearsed.
It didn’t sound like something spoken because the situation required it.
It sounded like understanding.
“I know,” I said.
“Can I come home?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“After everything?”
I almost smiled.
“Felix, I’m a forensic accountant.”
He laughed once, nervously.
“I spent eight years building a record. If I had already decided there was no possibility of you coming home, you wouldn’t be asking.”
