She nodded and made another note. “Then we’ll ask for permanent alimony.”
Permanentalimony. I did like the sound of that.
“We should be able to get fifty percent of marital assets, and we’ll see if we can get the house, but a lot of this will depend on how mediation goes.”
I nodded as if I had anything other than the most rudimentary idea of what mediation was.
“Now, Vivian. I have some homework for you.”
She proceeded to tell me to get my paperwork together and said she would send me an email with websites that would be good resources. Oh, and I would have to figure out something to do to get insurance—probably get the kind of job that comes with benefits.
At the thought of it, I started crying again. Paloma tried to be supportive, but she was also looking at the time on her smartwatch as she asked me if there was anything else she could do for me.
I shook my head and wandered out of her office, so glad that I had my mother there with me. When I reached the lobby, Mom wasn’t looking at the magazine that lay open on her lap. Instead, she stared into space, her lips pursed and brow furrowed in a worried expression.
My breathing eased. Was that relief? I’d been avoiding my mother for so many years that my gladness at seeing her felt ... strange.
“Want me to drive home?” she asked.
I nodded and fished around in my purse for my keys in spite of the fact that I hated my mother’s driving. I’d just close my eyes and say my prayers.
We got into the Mystery Machine, and she adjusted the seats and arranged the mirrors to her liking before turning to me and saying, “Vivian, if I could take this for you, I would. I wouldn’t wish divorce on my worst enemy.”
I dedicated most of that afternoon to online job applications and Paloma’s homework. So far I’d applied to fifty different positions, but I didn’t have much hope. I had to fudge my level of experience often. Trying to find all the documentation I needed for Paloma should’ve been easy since I kept meticulous files, but I still had a headache by the time I got to emails, voicemails, and checking on the YouTube channel. I had several interview requests and more viewers, but I couldn’t figure out how to spin publicity into gold. Mom let me be. She sat on the couch reading a book, ignoring my sighs of frustration.
At seven she gave up waiting on me to cook and brought me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the crusts cut off.
I teared up.
“Dammit, Vivian, this was supposed to make you laugh.”
“Sorry. I—”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t apologize.”
I managed to swallow a couple of bites of sandwich. “I’m not used to anyone taking care of me, I guess.”
“Well,” Mom said. “That’s about to change. You’re going to learn to take care of yourself.”
I didn’t want to take care of myself. I’d spent so long thinking only of Dylan and Mitch that I didn’t even know how.
Picking at the sandwich, I wondered what taking care of myself even looked like. In the past, things like exercise were about looking good for ... Mitch. Keeping the house clean and the laundry done was something I did so Mitch and Dylan could have people over without being embarrassed, which might explain why the clutter had begun to catch up with me. Everyone was talking about self-care these days. What even was self-care?
I looked at Mom and simply asked, “How?”
“Think about whatyouwant.”
I put my sandwich down. “I don’t know.”
“You may have to ask yourself what you don’t want in order to figure out what you do want.”
The words made sense but didn’t make sense. I was still mulling them over an hour later when I stood in my closet in bra and panties looking for something to wear to Sal’s Singalong.
Blue. All blue.
My entire closet was various shades of blue. I did not want to wear blue. Blue didnotspark joy.
Mitch had always said helovedto see me in blue because it went well with my eyes.
