“More lawyers,” I said. “More paperwork. More of the process.”
“And after the process?”
I thought about Emma. I thought about the last weekend I had with her, two weeks ago, a Saturday afternoon that we had spent at the science museum because it was her current enthusiasm and because there are few things in the world more satisfying than watching a nine-year-old discover that friction is interesting. She had explained three separate exhibits to me with the confidence of someone who has recently acquired knowledge and finds it almost unbearably worth sharing.
I thought about what I wanted for her.
Not what I wanted her to have. What I wanted her to be. Someone who understood that the story other people tell about you is not the story you are required to live inside. Someone who knew that preparation is more durable than performance and that the patient version of a plan is almost always the right version. Someone who knew, when it mattered, what her father was.
“After the process,” I said, “I go pick up my daughter.”
David looked at the parking lot. He looked at the court building behind us. He looked at me in the blue Walmart shirt that I had worn deliberately into a room where it was supposed to tell one story and had ended up telling a different one entirely.
“You know,” he said, “you could have told them at the beginning.”
“Yes,” I said.
“It would have been simpler.”
“Simpler is not always better.”
He thought about that.
“Jessica is going to be very angry,” he said.
“Jessica has been angry before,” I said. “It doesn’t change anything I need to do.”
He nodded. We stood in the parking lot for another minute, the way people stand after something has concluded, when the adrenaline is settling and the next thing has not quite begun.
“The Denver people called again this morning,” he said.
“What did you tell them?”
“That we were still deciding.”
“That’s accurate,” I said.
A sale of the company was one of the things to decide. Not today, not this week, not until the custody arrangement was settled and the full shape of what came next was clear. Twenty-three million dollars was enough to change the character of a life, and I had learned over the past eighteen months to be careful about changes that arrived faster than you could understand them.
What I knew was this: Emma would not grow up watching her father treated as a lesser thing. Not because I had money, which was a means and not an end, but because I had refused to be what they said I was, and I had proved it in the room where they had been most certain.
I drove home to the apartment.
I made dinner. I ate it at the kitchen table, which was also the desk where I had read the Meridian filing the previous evening. The mildew smell was there when I opened the back window, as it always was. I had never minded it as much as the aesthetics of the thing might suggest, because the apartment had served its purpose, which was to be exactly what it looked like: a place that told a simple story to people who were only looking at the surface.
After dinner I called Emma.
