Phoenix nods, her tone softening. “Understood. That’s exactly what the document ensures. A postnuptial agreement works a lot like a prenup. It outlines how assets and debts would be handled if the marriage ends. The only difference is timing. It’s created after you’re already married. It’s less common, but just as useful from a financial protection standpoint.”
I nod along, breathing through my nerves at hearing “marriage ends.” But I know I need to focus on the facts, not my emotions.
“As you know, we recently paid off the riverfront property, and we were planning to start building vacation cabins together. Now, I want that property in my name, solely. I’m also offering to forgo any claim on the house. He’s always seen it as his, and I’m done fighting for space he doesn’t believe I deserve.”
Phi raises her eyebrows. “Legally, it’s your shared residence. You don’t have to give that up. I know you can show how your finances mixed. Some months, you paid the 'mortgage' to Holly based on Sam's job schedule.”
“I know. But this isn’t about what I could take. It’s about protecting what I built. What I thought we built together, until he gave it away.”
She glances down at her notes. “Honestly, Becca, this is more than fair. Especially given the financial history you’ve laid out. I can have a draft ready within a day. I’ll needproperty documents and account statements. Send those over when you can.”
“Thank you, Phi. I owe you, big time." I reach for my purse to pull out my phone. "Do you take Venmo, or does your office prefer a check?"
Phi shakes her head. “No, we are family. Besides, you already paid me, you just didn’t call it that. You gave up your realtor fee so I could buy my duplex. This is me returning the favor.”
I blink at the kindness, my chest tightening. “I … thank you. When you’re done renovating the first duplex, I’ve got the listing."
Phi tries to jump in, but I cut her off.
"I won't take no for an answer. Besides, wearefamily," I reassure her.
She nods once, closing the laptop, feeling the warmth of our exchange even if she isn't showing it. “If you approve the draft, I can deliver it to Sam by tomorrow.”
With that taken care of, I get in my car and drive. I don’t know where I’m going at first, but the roads do. Muscle memory takes over. Two hours later, I’m back in Sweet Hill, home of the Billies. Yes, my high school mascot was the Hill-Billies. The old logging town leans all the way into our roots.
I turn down a cracked gravel lane and pull into the modest, well-kept trailer park on the far side of town. The homes are older, but tidy. The porches are swept, flamingos upright, plastic lawn chairs arranged neatly.
That’s my mom’s doing. Matilda Alder organized a “neighborhood clean team” years ago and never let up; it is her version of book club.
I roll into my parents’ driveway and take a deep breath. I love them. I do. But coming back here always scrapes oldfeelings raw. They didn’t have much, but theylovedfiercely. Still do. Dad met Mom on the night shift at a gas station diner.
He walked in, saw her long blonde hair and killer curves in her light blue uniform, and said, “I want to sit inhersection.”
She’d replied, “Honey, it’s midnight on a Wednesday. There’s only one section.”
By the time she served him hotcakes, he was a goner. And yes, Hot Cakes is still his nickname for her. I told my kindergarten teacher that was her real name. Mrs. Havalina still shares that story whenever I see her at the supermarket.
“Is that my big city girl?” my dad, Wade Alder, hollers, throwing open the screen door with a grin when I park the car.
“Cascadia only has a hundred thousand people, Dad. Hardly ‘big city.’”
My dad looks older than the last time I saw him, more gray in his beard and a little softer through the middle after decades behind the wheel, but his eyes are still steady and kind. He swoops me into a bear hug that knocks the wind out of me. “What brings you home, sweetheart? Where’s Sam?”
“Can’t a girl come see her family?” I say lightly, even though he sees right through me.
“Course she can. Come on in, your mom’s making your favorite; must have had a sixth sense.”
I walk into the trailer and immediately hear the sizzle of a sandwich on the stovetop and the faint pop of a soup can lid.
“Becca!” my mom calls as she moves toward me, spatula in hand. She walks fast, swaying a bit, trying not to burnsomething. “Sit, sit. I’ll throw another sandwich in the pan and heat up more soup.”
My mom is still beautiful in that familiar way, the kind that survived hard years instead of avoiding them. Fine lines frame her smile now, but they only make her look warmer. I slide into one of the squeaky vinyl chairs at the old round kitchen table. It’s the same table we’ve had since I was ten, cracked down the middle, the laminate top curling slightly at the corners. It groans as I lean into it.
My dad brings over a tall glass of iced tea and sets it in front of me like it’s an offering. “There she is,” he says softly. “Everything okay?”
“Sam and I had a fight,” I say slowly, deliberating over my words. “I just … needed to be around my people.”
He nods and doesn’t press. But Mom’s already watching me too closely.
