The turquoise scarf lay across the back of my chair.
My moving receipt sat on the desk.
I had thought I was simply reclaiming my independence.
But without remembering it, four years earlier, I had signed a piece of paper that made my decision mean something else too.
“When I moved out Friday,” I whispered, “the loan became due.”
Peter was quiet.
“Yes, Maggie.”
My chest tightened.
Not with triumph.
With dread.
Daniel and Rebecca had a mortgage.
School expenses.
Cars.
A life built around the assumption that I would remain inside that house.
“Send me everything,” I said.
“I will.”
“And Peter?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t contact Daniel.”
“I wouldn’t without your permission.”
After we hung up, I remained at the desk.
Five minutes later, the documents arrived.
I opened the agreement.
There was my signature.
There was Daniel’s.
There was Rebecca’s.
And beneath the addendum was something I had completely forgotten.
