“You misunderstood the form.”
“Maybe.”
“You could have asked.”
“I know.”
Michael had spent months interpreting every neutral event through the belief that he was losing something. The condo. The marriage. And instead of asking me whether any of that was true, he had started trying to protect himself from a future that existed mostly in his imagination.
“Who suggested changing the locks?”
His face changed. I noticed it immediately.
“Michael.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“My mother.”
“Of course.”
“She said if you came home and realized how serious things were, maybe you would finally talk.”
“You both thought locking me out would encourage communication.”
“When you say it like that—”
“How else should I say it?”
“She wasn’t trying to steal your home.”
“I know.”
Linda hadn’t orchestrated some elaborate scheme to take my property. She had seen her son unhappy and had given terrible advice. Michael had followed it because terrible advice becomes attractive when it validates what we already want to believe. I faced the clock. I had a nine o’clock meeting. I took my phone and texted my assistant that I was taking a personal day. Michael watched.
