The pale mark around my finger looked more honest than the ring ever had.
Still, I answered his call.
Some part of me wanted to hear whether he would tell the truth without being forced.
He did not.
He gave me “critical negotiations.”
He gave me irritation.
He gave me the sound of the ocean and another woman’s laughter.
He told me his mother had bad nights before.
I listened until he ran out of patience.
Then I said, “Enjoy your trip, Christopher.”
“It isn’t a trip.”
“Of course not.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
I looked at the urn, the divorce papers, and the silver key resting beside my bare hand.
“It means I won’t call again.”
He exhaled hard.
“Good.”
That word ended twenty years more cleanly than any argument could have.
I hung up.
I packed one suitcase.
I took my identification, a few clothes, Gertrude’s overnight bag, and the small box of photographs she had trusted me to organize.
