The Italian sectional was gone. So was the low brass coffee table. Several paintings had been removed, leaving ghostly pale rectangles on the walls where the sun had not touched the paint. The antique dining table my father bought me after my first profitable year—the first truly beautiful thing I had ever purchased for myself, even if technically he paid for it—was being wrapped in moving blankets by two hired men.
My mother stood in the center of the room like a foreman.
Jasmine was near the bar cart, draping one of my silk scarves over her shoulders while sorting through my handbags.
I did not move for a moment.
Then I said, “What are you doing?”
My mother turned.
No shame. No embarrassment. Just irritation at being interrupted.
“Julian said we could come get some things,” she said.
“Some things?”
“Marital assets,” Jasmine corrected, without looking up. “He’s entitled to half. You know. Since you destroyed the marriage.”
The sentence was so viciously absurd I almost admired it.
I stepped farther into the room. “Those bags are mine.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Everything’s yours, according to you.”