Then another.
I let both go to voicemail.
I was in my garage replacing a capacitor on an old condenser I had brought home for no reason except my hands needed a task.
The phone buzzed again.
I answered.
“Greg.”
Her voice was sharp.
“Are you really going to ignore me?”
“I'm not ignoring you.”
“You've barely said ten words.”
“I think communication about legal and financial issues should go through Michael now.”
Silence.
“Michael Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Our estate lawyer?”
“He represents me on the asset issues now.”
“You hired a lawyer against me?”
“I hired a lawyer to understand my obligations.”
“Over a birthday toast.”
“No.”
“What, then?”
I looked at the open condenser in front of me.
“The toast just got me to read the paperwork.”
Another silence.
Then she hung up.
I stood there with a screwdriver in my hand.
No satisfaction.
Only nausea.
Eighteen years of being responsible for Laura's emotional weather had become muscle memory.
Refusing the assignment felt almost physically wrong.
Tuesday morning at nine, Carol called while I was driving toward Garland for a furnace job.
“Gregory, honey.”
Church-fundraiser voice.
“I think everybody said things Saturday we didn't mean.”
“I meant what I said.”
“Well, Laura is beside herself.”
I kept driving.
“She hasn't eaten.”
“I hope she does.”
Carol paused.
“Frankly, we are all shocked that you'd tear apart an eighteen-year marriage over one sentence at a birthday party.”
I took the next exit.
Pulled onto a safe shoulder.
Parked.