Marcus tried to talk to me in the drizzle outside. He said he had planned to leave me either way and that the software was separate, as though those were two different cruelties instead of the same one. I told him the announcement he rehearsed was fine, he could still make it, and that I would be making a few of my own.
The divorce took ten months. I kept the intellectual property, because it was always mine, and I licensed it to three of Campbell Realty’s direct competitors, which Everett found considerably more educational than any speech I could have given.
Delphine wrote to me last year asking whether I would consider a “family rate” for a new venture. I did not reply, which was its own kind of answer.
I run my own firm now. Eleven employees. My name is on the door, spelled correctly, and clients learn it before they learn anything else about me.
Priya still keeps a corner table for me at Silverwood Terrace. I sit at it alone sometimes, on purpose.
They spent seven years deciding I was the outsider, the wife, the removable name in a reservation system, while I quietly held up the entire thing they were so proud of. I was never on the outside. I was load-bearing. The night they left a chair out for everyone but me was the night I stopped waiting to be seated and built my own table instead.
