I kept my eyes on Gerald.
He was waiting for me to explain what I wanted.
Walter had stopped reaching for the potatoes.
I looked at the brown envelope between us.
Then I looked at the man who had pushed it across the table.
"Do you remember what happened three years ago?"
Gerald's expression changed slightly.
Not much.
Just enough for me to notice.
"What are you talking about?"
I rested my hands beside the envelope.
"The Friday we went to the lawyer's office."
Walter lowered his wineglass.
Gerald looked at his father, then back at me.
"I don't see what that has to do with tonight."
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because he had just told me that our marriage was over, yet he wanted to decide which parts of our history were allowed to matter.
"It has everything to do with tonight."
He picked up his fork again.
"Teresa, we're discussing the divorce."
"So am I."
Walter shifted in his chair.
I noticed his hand moving toward the envelope.
He seemed to want to take control of the conversation.
"The agreement is clear," he said. "You signed a prenup. There's nothing more to discuss."
I turned toward him.
"I haven't forgotten the prenup, Walter."
"Then you understand the situation."
"I understand what I signed."
That made him pause.
I could see Gerald becoming impatient.
He had expected me to react differently.
Perhaps he had imagined me crying.
Perhaps he thought I would ask him why he no longer loved me.
Instead, I was asking about a Friday afternoon three years earlier.
That afternoon had not been ordinary.
I remembered the lawyer's office.
I remembered the blue binder.
I remembered how Gerald had sat beside me, looking tired and frightened.
He had held my hands.
He had asked me to help him.
I remembered the way he had spoken.
He hadn't sounded like the confident man sitting across from me now.
He had sounded like someone who was afraid of losing something important.
I had listened.
I had agreed to help.
And I had gone with him to the lawyer's office.
Walter had been there, too.
All three of us had been involved.
I remembered the papers being placed in front of us.
I remembered the discussion.
Most of all, I remembered the signatures.
Gerald had signed.
Walter had signed.
I had watched both men do it.
Now they were looking at me as though those papers had never existed.
"Gerald," I said, "you asked me to help you that day."
He put his fork down.
"I was dealing with a difficult situation."
"I know."
"And we handled it."
"Yes, we did."
Walter interrupted.
"That matter is finished."
I looked at him.
"Then why are you both so uncomfortable hearing about it?"
Neither answered.
The rain continued against the windows.
A drop of water ran down the glass and disappeared behind the curtain.
I looked at the blue binder in my memory.
It had been sitting on the lawyer's desk.
I remembered its color because I had held it while waiting for the documents to be prepared.
There had been no shouting that afternoon.
No dramatic arguments.
Just serious conversations and papers that needed careful attention.
I had trusted Gerald.
I had trusted Walter.
I believed that what we were doing was necessary.
And I believed the agreement would be respected.
Gerald leaned forward.
"Whatever happened three years ago doesn't change the fact that I filed for divorce today."
I nodded.
"I understand that you filed."
"Then we can finish this without making it unpleasant."
I looked at the envelope.
"You keep saying that."
"Because that's what I want."
I studied his face.
He had become so certain of his position that he seemed unable to imagine I might have a position of my own.
I didn't need to tell him everything at once.
I didn't need to argue.
I only needed him to remember.
I turned toward Walter.
"Do you remember signing those papers?"
His wineglass remained in his hand.
For several seconds, he didn't answer.
Then he said, "I remember plenty of things."
It wasn't an answer.
I knew it.
So did Gerald.
I placed the company pen beside the envelope.
The same pen I had ordered for the office.
The same kind of pen I had used to sign the acknowledgment.
It seemed strange that the ordinary things in that room had become so important.
The envelope.
The pen.
The dinner table.
The blue binder that wasn't even there.
I had spent years remembering details for other people.
Now those details were the only things keeping me from being pushed into a decision I hadn't made.
Gerald sighed.
"Terry, let's not drag this out."
I looked at him.
"I agree."
For the first time that evening, I meant it.
But finishing something and surrendering were not the same thing.
I had finally learned that.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: Gerald Wanted Me Out of the House Within Two Days, but He Had Forgotten How Many Years I Had Spent Keeping His Life Together
The Dinner I Thought Was Ordinary Until My Husband Put Down His Knife and Changed Everything
Part 5 of 20
