“He chose himself.”
“That is what he should have done from the beginning.”
She looked past me toward the staircase, where the children were watching through the banister.
For one instant, her face softened.
Then it closed again.
“Tell them I tried.”
Michael stepped between us.
“Tell them the truth.”
Lauren’s shoulders stiffened.
The officers took her outside.
Through the window, I watched her cross the porch beneath the chandelier’s reflection. The blue lights moved over the oak tree, the roofline, the windows where my wife had once hung winter wreaths.
No one spoke until the police car pulled away.
Then Michael sat down.
His body folded over itself.
“I am sorry,” he said.
The words were small. They did not fix anything. They did not erase the signature or the power of attorney or the fact that he had signed a document without reading it because his wife had placed it in front of him.
But they were the first honest words he had given me that night.
I pulled out the chair beside him.
“Tell me everything.”
He covered his face.
“I should have told you when I lost the job.”
“Yes.”
“I should have told you when Lauren started asking how much the house was worth.”
“Yes.”
“I should have read the document.”
“Yes.”
His hands dropped.
“I thought if I admitted we were in trouble, you would look at me the way you looked at her.”
“I never looked at you that way.”
“You did tonight.”
