Chapter 8 - The Agreement
When I came back in, everyone was seated. Diane looked at me, then at Marlene, trying to read what had happened in the hall. Marlene gave her the smallest shake of the head. Not now.
Karen poured water into four glasses. Nobody had touched the pitcher until then.
"Ready to continue?" she said.
"Yes," Dad said. He looked at me. I nodded.
Diane opened the separation agreement again and turned to the second page.
"Marlene isn't contesting the separation," she said. "She's asking for sixty days. Not to stall — to make arrangements. She'll stay with me during that time."
Dad looked at Karen.
"That's reasonable," Karen said.
"One condition," Diane went on. "Marlene wants the text messages handled with discretion. Not deleted — she's not asking for that. She knows they exist. She's asking that they not be made public or used in any proceeding beyond what the separation actually requires."
"That's acceptable," Karen said. "As long as the separation goes through without a fight."
"It will," Diane said. She looked at Marlene. Marlene nodded.
Dad leaned forward. "I want one thing on the record. Not in the agreement — just said out loud, in this room."
Everyone waited.
"Nora is my daughter," he said. "She comes first in my house. That was true before this marriage and it's true after it. I should have made that clear from day one. I didn't. And I'm sorry for that."
He was looking at me when he said the last part. I hadn't expected it. My eyes stung. I looked down at the table.
"I know, Dad."
Marlene was quiet, looking at her hands again.
"Marlene," Dad said. Not unkindly. "I don't think you're a bad person. I think we made a mistake. Both of us. And the one who paid for it was Nora."
Marlene looked up. Her jaw was tight, but her eyes were wet.
"Yes," she said. "She was."
Diane uncapped a pen and slid the agreement toward her sister.
Marlene picked it up. She held it a moment, looking at the signature line. Then she signed.
Diane signed as witness. Karen countersigned on our side. The folder closed.
That was it. No shouting. No collapse. Just a pen, a signature, and the sound of a folder shutting on a Thursday afternoon.
Dad and I rode the elevator down without talking. When we stepped out onto the sidewalk the air was cold and sharp.
Dad put his arm around my shoulders. We walked to the car. He unlocked it. I got in. He got in. He put the key in the ignition and then just sat there, not turning it.
"Dad," I said.
"Give me a second."
I gave him a second.
May you like
Then he started the car, and we drove home — just the two of us, for the first time in a long time.
---
