The divorce takes longer because property and debt always do. But eventually the house is secured. The hidden accounts are addressed. The debts are divided more fairly than I feared and less fairly than justice deserves.
I let Emma choose the new bathroom color.
She picks pale blue “like a friendly sky.”
The fish bathmat goes in the trash. The shower door is replaced. New towels. New mirror. New curtain. New soap.
On the first night back in the house, Emma stands in the bathroom doorway gripping my hand.
“It looks different,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Will it still think bad things?”
I swallow twice before answering.
“No. Rooms don’t get to keep choosing what happened in them. We do.”
She turns the faucet on and off, listening.
“It sounds less mean,” she says.
I do not know if water can sound less mean.
I know it does.
One year later, Emma asks from her bed, “Did we win?”
I stand in the doorway with the hall light behind me, and the question moves through every version of the story.
The courtroom answer is yes.
The emotional answer is more complicated.
But the true answer—the one a child can build a future on—is clearer.