“So am I,” I sent. “Still works.” She did not laugh.
That same afternoon, the financial counselor called me to confirm: “They booked. Tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”
I let my shoulders drop an inch. “Thank you.”
Day four, Chloe called me from Melissa’s phone and sobbed. “Why don’t you love us anymore?”
I sat on the edge of my bed. “I love you very much,” I said. “So much that I don’t want to teach you that expensive equals love.”
She cried harder. “Everyone else got stuff.”
“I know,” I said. “We’ll make pancakes Saturday. You pick the toppings.”
She quieted. “Can I still come over?” she whispered.
“Always,” I said.
Day split updates followed:
Day five, Melissa texted: “WE WENT TO YOUR MEETING.” -> “Proud,” I replied.
Day six, therapist reminders arrived.
Day seven, Dad texted: “Your mother is sick over this.” Then later, “She’s fine. But still.” I did not bait.
Week two, the tone shifted. Fewer accusations. More logistics.
“Do you still have the number for the dentist?” “What is the difference between data and Wi-Fi?” “Do I have to tip movers?”
I answered those. Clear. Simple. Practical. I did not send money. Not once.
I also started saying a new sentence: “That’s not something I can do.” It felt like a tight shoe at first. Then like a shoe that actually fit.
On Wednesday of week two, a photo arrived from Melissa: Three labeled boxes stacked against a wall.
“Kids picked toys to donate,” she wrote.
“Proud,” I said again.
“I can come Saturday,” she replied. A truce flag.
Saturday morning, we went to the donation center together. Tyler clung to two action figures, then put one back without crying. Progress is sometimes one finger loosening.
In the car, he asked, “Why can’t we have better phones?”
“You can,” I said. “When you save half, I’ll match half for birthdays if you bring me a budget.”
“What’s a budget?”
“It’s a plan in numbers. Exactly like a map.” He nodded.