“You don’t even want counseling?”
That was harder.
For six years, she had been my wife.
Despite everything, some part of me wanted to reach for the version of us from earlier years.
The couple painting the guest room.
The couple laughing over a backward bookcase.
The couple who could disagree about restaurants without making it a referendum on loyalty.
But wanting a memory back was not the same as believing the current marriage was safe to continue.
“I don’t want counseling as a way to negotiate whether I’m allowed to control my own money.”
“That’s not what counseling is.”
“I know.”
“Then why not?”
“Because I don’t trust the foundation anymore.”
She inhaled.
“Eric.”
“I’m sorry.”
And I meant it.
That was another thing divorce taught me.
You could be finished without being cruel.
Lauren cried.
Quietly at first.
Then she asked whether Melissa and Brooke were the reason.
“No.”
“They influenced me.”
“I believe they did.”
“Then this isn’t all my fault.”
I stared at the wall.
“Melissa didn’t throw my clothes outside.”
Silence.
“Brooke didn’t tell me I no longer lived in my house.”
Nothing.
“They may have encouraged you. You made the decisions.”
Lauren’s voice hardened again.
“So I’m supposed to take all the blame.”
“I’m not asking you to take anything.”
“Of course you are.”
“No.”
I looked at the clock.
“I’m asking you to communicate through the attorneys about the divorce.”
She hung up.
After that came messages in waves.
Anger.