“Hi,” I said.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His voice was smooth, warm, familiar.
I closed my eyes.
“Where are you?”
“Still in transit. Long day.”
Not a lie, technically.
“Are you tired?”
“A little. Mostly missing you.”
I looked at the empty half of the closet.
“Me too.”
There was a pause.
“You sound strange.”
“I’ve been crying.”
That part was true.
“Oh, Anne.” His voice softened. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”
Do this to yourself.
Not grieve.
Not miss me.
Do this to yourself.
The phrasing landed with a small, precise sting.
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you eat?”
“No.”
“You need to. Promise me.”
I nearly laughed.
He was still playing husband. Still placing small tokens of care like coins in a jar.
“I promise.”
“Good. Also, I meant to say, there may be a large transfer coming out of the joint account. It’s related to the Zurich relocation.”
My eyes opened.
“There is?”
“Yeah, some housing and tax setup. It’s complicated, international stuff. I didn’t want to burden you.”
His ease frightened me more than panic would have.
“How large?”
“I’m not sure yet. A few hundred thousand maybe, but it’s temporary. Reimbursable.”
I walked to the window and looked out at the quiet street.
“Lucas, that sounds like something we should discuss.”
“We did discuss it. Remember? The relocation package? The financial restructuring?”
“No,” I said carefully. “I don’t remember discussing several hundred thousand dollars.”
A silence.
It lasted only a second, but I heard the change in him.
“Anne,” he said, patient now, “we talked about this last week.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Maybe you were overwhelmed.”
There it was.
