PART 3
Everything that belonged to me went into boxes. Everything that belonged to Arthur stayed.
I didn’t take a single thing that wasn’t mine. Not even the expensive coffee machine I had bought.
Not even the television. Not even the antique lamp I had paid for after Arthur said it was too expensive.
I wanted no argument. No accusation. No excuse they could use later to tell people I had stolen from them.
At seven fifteen, the moving company arrived.
Two men and a woman.
Three large trucks.
Eleanor came downstairs wearing a silk robe and an expression of satisfaction.
She looked at the boxes.
Then at me.
“I didn’t expect you to actually do it.”
I smiled.
“You told me to.”
“Yes, but…”
She looked around.
“You’re taking all of this?”
I glanced at the boxes.
“Everything that’s mine.”
She frowned.
“You’ve lived here for eight years.”
“Twelve.”
She ignored the correction.
“You’ve accumulated a lot.”
“I work.”
Her lips tightened.
“I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”
I didn’t answer.
The movers continued carrying things out.
One box.
Then another.
Then another.
Eleanor stood in the hallway watching.
At one point, she noticed the framed photograph of Arthur and me from our wedding.
She pointed at it.
“That stays.”
I looked at her.
“No.”
“It’s a family photograph.”
“It’s my wedding photograph.”
“Arthur is in it.”
“So am I.”
She opened her mouth.
I picked up the frame myself.
“And I’m taking it.”
She said nothing.
The photograph went into my car.
Then came the bedroom furniture.
My desk.
My books.
My clothes.
My kitchen equipment.
My plants.
The small lemon tree I had kept alive on the balcony for three years.
That one took four men to carry down the stairs.
Eleanor watched it leave.
“Where are you going to live?”
I turned.
“Somewhere else.”
“You haven’t found a place.”
“I have.”
She looked surprised.
“When?”
“Last night.”
I had signed the lease at 1:14 a.m.
A two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side.
Smaller.
Quieter.
Mine.
I had paid the first month and security deposit from my personal account.
No Arthur.
No Eleanor.
No family approval.
Just my signature.
Mine.
The movers finished around noon.
By then, the apartment looked completely different.
Empty walls.
Bare floors.
Echoing rooms.
The enormous dining table where Eleanor had ordered me to leave sat untouched in the middle of the room.
She walked from room to room.
I watched her.
Something was changing in her expression.
Not regret.
Not yet.
Confusion.
She had expected me to cry.
She had expected me to beg.
She had expected me to ask where I was supposed to go.
Instead, I stood by the door holding my purse.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
I reached into my purse and pulled out an envelope.
Eleanor stared at it.
“What is that?”
I handed it to her.
She opened it.
Her eyes moved across the page.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
“What is this?”
“A notice.”
“A notice for what?”
I said nothing.
She read the first line again.
Then looked at me.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“Sarah.”
“Yes?”
“This is ridiculous.”
I smiled.
“No.”
Her voice became sharp.
“You’re telling me to pay rent?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me.
Then laughed.
It was a loud, disbelieving laugh.
“Rent?”
“Yes.”
“For this apartment?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
I looked around the empty apartment.
“No.”
I pointed toward the document.
“For the last four years, I have paid $9,800 every month.”
Eleanor’s smile disappeared.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Arthur pays the rent.”
“No.”
“He told me—”
“I know what he told you.”
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
“That’s impossible.”
“It’s not.”
I pulled another document from my purse.
Bank statements.
Four years.
Forty-eight months.
$9,800 every month.
Paid from my account.
I handed them to her.
She stared.
Her mouth opened slightly.
“You said Arthur was paying.”
“I said nothing.”
“You let us believe—”
“You believed what you wanted to believe.”
She looked at the total.
Four hundred seventy thousand two hundred dollars.
Almost half a million dollars.
Her face became pale.
“Why?”
I looked at her.
“Because Arthur asked me to.”
She shook her head.
“My son couldn’t afford this.”
“I know.”
“He has a successful position.”
“I know.”
“He told me his company was doing well.”
“It isn’t.”
She looked at me.
“What do you mean?”
I took a breath.
“Arthur’s company has been losing money for three years.”
Eleanor stared.
“He owes vendors.”
She didn’t move.
“His salary was reduced twice.”
“No.”
“And he has personal debts.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
She whispered,
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve been paying some of them.”
Her face changed again.
This time, I saw something I’d never seen in Eleanor before.
Fear.
I looked toward the empty living room.
“Arthur didn’t tell you.”
She swallowed.
“No.”
“He didn’t tell you because he wanted you to think he was successful.”
“And you…”
“I covered for him.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved him.”
She looked away.
I continued.
“I thought marriage meant protecting each other.”
Eleanor’s voice became softer.
“And now?”
“Now I understand that protection becomes destruction when only one person is doing it.”
She looked at the document again.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Because from today forward, I won’t be paying it.”
She looked up.
“What?”
“I canceled the automatic payment.”
Her lips parted.
“You can’t.”
“I already did.”
“But this is our home.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“It was our home.”
She stepped toward me.
“Where are we supposed to go?”
I almost smiled.
It was the first time she had asked a question I had been asking myself for years.
“I don’t know.”
She stared at me.
“You can’t just abandon us.”
I looked at her carefully.
“You told me to leave.”
“But I didn’t mean—”
“You said I wasn’t needed.”
She went silent.
“So now,” I said gently, “you’ll find out whether you were right.”
I walked out.
I didn’t slam the door.
I didn’t shout.
I didn’t look back.
I simply walked into the elevator.
And as the doors closed, I saw Eleanor standing in that enormous empty apartment, holding four years of bank statements in her hands.
For the first time since I had known her, she looked small.
My new apartment smelled like fresh paint and cardboard.
It was nothing like the luxury apartment.
There was no doorman.
No marble lobby.
No spectacular view.
No enormous dining room.
But there was something I hadn’t felt in years.
Peace.
I unpacked my books first.
Then my mother’s bowl.
Then the photograph.
I placed the wedding picture in a drawer.
Not on the wall.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
At seven that evening, I sat on the floor with takeout noodles and a glass of wine.
My phone buzzed.
Arthur.
I stared at his name.
He called again.
I answered.
“Hello.”
His voice was tense.
“Where are you?”
“At my apartment.”
“What apartment?”
“My new one.”
There was a pause.
“You moved?”
“Yes.”
“You actually left?”
“You wanted me to.”
“Sarah, that’s not what I meant.”
I laughed softly.
“Your mother told me to leave.”
“I know.”
“And you agreed.”
“I didn’t know she was going to say it like that.”
“But you agreed.”
Silence.
Then:
“Can we talk?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Not tonight.”
“Sarah, listen to me.”