He had simply stopped seeing them as part of me.
“Evelyn,” he said, “I made a terrible mistake.”
“Yes.”
“Can we at least talk?”
“We are talking.”
“Not like this.”
He looked toward the library.
“Alone.”
I considered refusing. Then I realized I no longer needed the protection of anger.
I led him into the small sitting room at the back of the house.
The restored stained glass cast red and gold across the floor between us.
Arthur sat on the edge of a chair.
For twenty minutes, he told me what had happened with Tiffany. At first, the relationship had felt like a rescue from aging. She wanted restaurants, trips, private clubs, last-minute flights. She admired his stories. She laughed at jokes I had heard for forty years. He mistook novelty for intimacy.
Then the spending accelerated.
He gave her access to an investment account because she said it would make travel easier. He added her to the condo title after she told him commitment required trust. He guaranteed a loan for a wellness studio she wanted to open.
By the time he understood that she had been transferring money into accounts he could not access, the relationship was already collapsing.
“Did she steal from you?” I asked.
He hesitated.
“Some of it may be fraud.”
“Then hire a lawyer.”
“With what?”
“Your nine thousand dollars.”
He looked wounded.
I did not soften the answer.
Then he said the sentence he had probably rehearsed on the drive over.
“I thought you would help me.”
“I am helping you.”
“How?”
“By not lying to you. You cannot move back in with me. There is no marriage to return to because Tiffany disappointed you.”
He stared at his hands.
