Nathan contacted me early the next week.
There had been further communication from Aaron's attorneys.
He wanted to review it with me before responding.
I arrived at his office carrying the same folder I had brought to our first meeting.
The corners were worn now.
The papers inside were in order.
Nathan opened the latest correspondence and explained what needed attention.
Some questions concerned the proposed settlement.
Others concerned the financial records supporting my position.
We went through them carefully.
I answered what I could.
Where I needed to check a document, I said so.
I wasn't embarrassed by not remembering every date from memory.
The records existed for that reason.
Nathan appreciated the care I had taken.
He also reminded me that the process was not finished.
I knew that.
I had stopped looking for a single conversation that would settle everything.
The divorce would be resolved through a series of decisions, some straightforward and others more difficult.
I wanted to handle each one properly.
When we finished, Nathan placed the documents back in the folder.
"Your position is clear," he said.
I nodded.
"I don't want anything that isn't mine."
"And you don't want to give up anything that is yours simply to end the process faster."
"No."
He looked at me.
"Then keep that in mind when the discussions become uncomfortable."
I knew what he meant.
There might be pressure to compromise.
There might be questions that felt personal.
There might be moments when I wanted to agree to something just to stop talking about the marriage.
I had done that before.
I didn't intend to repeat it.
After leaving his office, I walked to a nearby café.
I ordered a black coffee and sat at a table near the window.
I watched people moving through the street.
A man held a door open for a woman carrying a stack of folders.
Two friends stood outside, laughing over something on a phone.
Someone at the next table was trying to finish a call before leaving.
Ordinary life.
I had spent so long thinking about what I had lost that I had not paid much attention to what remained.
My education remained.
My financial records remained.
The Marblehead property remained.
My family remained.
The investment interest my grandfather had left me remained part of my life.
And my ability to make decisions remained, even if I had not used it as confidently as I once had.
I finished my coffee and returned to my parents' house.
My mother was in the kitchen.
She asked how the meeting had gone.
"We still have work to do."
"Did anything change?"
"No."
She nodded.
"Then you know where you stand."
I smiled.
It was a simple way to put it.
I knew where I stood.
I wanted a fair settlement.
I wanted my premarital assets treated according to the agreement and the evidence.
I wanted the joint matters resolved properly.
I wanted to leave the marriage without turning the process into a contest over who could hurt the other person more.
That was my position.
It had not changed.
That afternoon, I opened the notebook again.
I wrote about the meeting.
Not the legal details.
Just the feeling of sitting across from Nathan and answering questions without apologizing for having a position of my own.
I wrote that I wanted to remember the feeling.
I wanted to remember that I could say no without being cruel.
I could ask a question without being difficult.
I could change my mind about a plan without needing to defend myself for an hour.
I could make a decision that disappointed someone and still be acting responsibly.
Those were things I should have known long before I married Aaron.
I had known them in theory.
Now I was learning to live by them.
Later, my father asked whether I wanted to return to Marblehead that weekend.
I said yes.
We planned the visit without making it a major event.
I would bring the property records if Nathan needed anything else, but otherwise I wanted to leave the legal folder at home.
My father agreed.
The next morning, I received another call from Aaron.
I watched his name on the screen.
I could have answered.
I could have told him that the settlement was progressing, that Nathan was handling the documents, and that I was not ready for a private conversation.
But I had already established the appropriate channel.
I let the call end.
Then I placed the phone on the table and went outside.
The air was cold.
I stood on the steps and looked at the yard.
For years, I had been afraid that if I stopped answering Aaron immediately, something would fall apart.
The marriage.
The household.
His confidence in me.
The image of us that other people expected to see.
I had tried to prevent that collapse by being available at all times.
But the marriage had not become secure because I was always available.
It had become increasingly lonely.
I could not repair that loneliness by making myself more accessible.
I went back inside and made another cup of coffee.
My mother asked whether I wanted breakfast.
I told her I would eat in a few minutes.
Then I sat at the table with my notebook.
I looked at the sentence I had written earlier.
I was allowed to choose a life that did not require me to disappear.
I still believed it.
That mattered more than whether Aaron agreed.
There would be more legal correspondence.
There would be questions about the settlement and the assets.
There would be decisions about the property and the practical details of separating our lives.
I would handle them as they came.
I would not pretend that everything was easy.
I would not claim that I had no regrets about how I had acted.
But I would no longer confuse regret with a reason to return.
I closed the notebook and put it in my bag.
Then I went downstairs to have breakfast with my parents.
The day had begun without an answer from Aaron.
For once, that did not feel like a problem I needed to solve.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: The First Time Aaron Had to Answer for His Own Choices
The Fifth Night Changed Everything, but the Message I Sent Before Dawn Was Only the Beginning of My Decision
Part 16 of 20
