“You tell me.”
He was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he whispered:
“She was trying to end my marriage.”
“Yes.”
“With information she knew wasn’t true.”
“Yes.”
“She wanted me out of the house.”
“She wanted you back.”
Another silence.
“That’s what this was about?”
“That’s what I believe.”
“She lied because she wanted me back?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”
“Neither do I.”
Then Felix asked a question that mattered more than any financial number.
“What do you want?”
“The house.”
“I know. I mean from me.”
I sat down.
“What do you want from us?” he asked.
I thought about eight years.
The good years.
The ordinary mornings.
The dinners.
The trips.
The laughter.
The arguments.
The way he had once listened to me before his mother’s voice gradually became louder.
“I want you to understand what happened.”
