Chapter 24 - THE HOUSE SALE
I decided to sell the brownstone.
Not because Judith wanted it.
Not because Graham’s plan contaminated it.
Because I had been offered a partnership in an architecture firm closer to Cambridge, and commuting had become ridiculous.
That was important.
A normal reason.
The first time I told Naomi, she asked:
“Are you sure this isn’t trauma?”
“Some.”
“Enough to regret later?”
“I don’t think so.”
I waited three months.
Still wanted to sell.
Good.
Listed.
The property market was strong.
Offer:
$5.05 million.
Clean title.
No Northbridge lien.
No lender condition.
Closing attorney found draft appraisal in old underwriting? Irrelevant.
No encumbrance.
We closed.
I paid taxes.
Bought a smaller modern condo with cash plus conservative investment portfolio.
No secret fortune.
Just transformed asset.
When Graham heard through property records, he sent one message via counsel:
I’m glad you sold because you wanted to, not because of us.
I did not reply.
He was right.
Then I found the old casserole dish replacement Judith had bought me years earlier.
Not the one that shattered.
A matching serving dish.
I almost threw it away.
Instead donated it.
No symbolism required.
Then Arthur asked to visit my new condo.
I said yes.
First time.
He stood inside.
“No basement stairs?”
“Elevator.”
He laughed.
Then serious.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said.”
“I know.”
“Then stop making apology the price of seeing me.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“If we’re going to know each other, we need something besides that night.”
He smiled.
“Coffee?”
“Coffee.”
We talked about architecture.
Accounting.
His disastrous garden.
Good.
Relationships can grow away from trauma or they should not grow.
Then Judith, still in custody, sent me a letter through counsel.
I could refuse.
I accepted.
One page.
Nora,
I believed you were temporary.
I stared.
Then:
Not as Graham’s wife. As an authority in your own life.
That was sharp.
She continued:
I thought marriage, family dinner, money, and fear would eventually wear down whatever boundary you put up.
Then:
When you stood back up, I thought your slap proved you were no better than me. It took a long time to understand that your wrongdoing did not cancel mine.
That mattered.
Then:
I am sorry for pushing you.
No:
Please forgive.
No:
Visit.
I filed it away.
Did not answer.
May you like
Maybe someday.
Not now.
