“Traffic.”
“Unacceptable.”
“I deserve this.”
For dinner, we talked about everything except property. Sarah’s new job. Sophie’s obsession with astronomy. Michael’s tenant, who had requested permission to paint one wall green. For once in more than a year, I was working something close to normal hours. Near dessert, Michael reached into his jacket.
“If that is jewelry, I’m leaving.”
“It’s not jewelry.”
“Very romantic.”
“Keep reading.”
The Rogers Park condo would pass into a trust for his mother during her lifetime, then ultimately to his chosen beneficiaries. His other assets were divided between me and several family members. No vague ownership.
“I finally understand why paperwork matters to you,” he said.
I folded the document carefully.
“It isn’t the paperwork.”
“I know.”
“It’s clarity.”
“Exactly.”
Then he said, “I still hate that your condo is nicer than mine.”
“You own one bedroom in Rogers Park.”
