Chapter Eighteen
I shuffled through security at the courthouse, gazing at its high arched ceilings and historic marble floors. People in suits crowded the lobby, their strained expressions hurrying me along.
Mediation started in twenty minutes, and I arrived early to get settled before facing Robert, my nemesis.
My phone buzzed and I moved into a nearby corner to check the message from Camilla. She and Jeff had left for their trip yesterday, and I’d asked her to let me know when they arrived.
Camilla: Miss you Mom!
I smiled and typed an immediate response before she could disappear.
Me: Miss you too, sweet girl! Have an incredible time!
Camilla: I will! It’s beautiful here
Camilla: You’d love this so much
Me: Thrilled for you! Soak in every moment
Don’t rush into an engagement if the opportunity arises.
The small dots bounced on-screen, indicating Camilla was typing.
I waited. The dots stopped, and my heart stopped with them.
Camilla: Sending pics and love
Camilla: Talk soon!
I rushed out a quick goodbye as images of Camilla, their immaculate bungalow, and the Indian Ocean popped into view.
My gaze lingered on each photo. Gratitude for my daughter’s ability to travel like this and experience these things overwhelmed me, and my breath shuddered.
She looked so unequivocally happy.
The last picture was a selfie with Jeff at her side. She blew a kiss at the camera, but his eyes were fixed on her. The image reminded me of Mom’s photo with Sébastien. They’d both experienced the kind of adoration I once dreamed of, and I envied them that.
I sighed as I tucked the phone away.
A few minutes later I spotted the door I was looking for. My reflection in the glass stared back, unimpressed. I’d chosen a cream-colored blouse and wide-legged black silk pants with matching pumps for the occasion. Small gold hoops adorned my earlobes, pearls lined my neck. From the outside I appeared poised. Inside I was Mentos in Coke.
I tapped my information into the kiosk screen and tried uselessly not to think of the shimmering rhinestone in my still-swollen nostril. Robert would see it as a sign I’d returned to white trash without him. Never mind that my parents had made a solid middle-class living.
I took a seat on a nearby bench and waited for Robert to arrive.
He appeared two minutes past our scheduled start time, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He chatted with security, chummy and unhurried, then moved down the hall toward me.
I trembled immediately at his presence.
Thankfully, the mediator called us inside before he reached my bench. I took a seat at one end of a giant oval conference table, sure I’d throw up or pass out. I’d brought a list of things I wanted to address and notes for rebuttal to his inevitable pushback, but I wasn’t prepared for my physical response to his nearness.
Logical or not, I feared him, and that made me angry. Which was a terrible distraction.
For three hours, we answered the mediator’s questions, addressing one another only as needed across the massive table.
When I asked for an update on our dwindling bank balances, he accused me of divorcing him for his money. When I suggested he fire the gardener or cancel our country club membership to save money, he outwardly scoffed at my ignorance. According to Robert, the gardener was necessary to prepare the home for sale, and he needed the country club to continue conducting his business as usual. How could he afford to stop taking clients golfing at a time like this? He suggested I sell my mom’s house. We were selling our marital home, after all. Why should I keep the property I inherited when we could divide the proceeds from both?
I bristled at his greed. “That’s not fair, and you know it,” I snapped. “We owe more on the marital home than it’s worth, and Mom’s place is paid for. Not to mention she left it to me in her will.”
