Caleb would expect a conversation. He would expect me to come home, cry, demand answers, and negotiate. He would expect to keep the house as neutral ground because Caleb always treated neutral ground like his stage. He would lower his voice, call me Laney the way he did when he wanted softness from me, insist it “wasn’t what it looked like,” maybe admit to one kiss, one mistake, one emotional confusion. He would count on my horror of public mess. He would count on my desire to be fair.
I was not giving him a stage.
I opened my banking app.
We had two joint accounts: checking for bills, savings for the future. The future fund. I used to love that name when it appeared in our budgeting app. Future. A baby maybe. A kitchen renovation. A trip to Maine. A cushion against disaster.
The future fund had barely grown in eight months.