I parked outside the condo complex on Maplewood Drive at ten fifty-two, killed the engine, and sat there. My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I’d practiced the whole speech — in the car, in the shower, at work. But now that I saw the building, brick and old-ish, with a cracked walkway and a dying juniper bush by the mail kiosk, my confidence was starting to leak.
You’re doing this for the baby, I told myself. Craig is too soft to do it himself. Somebody has to.
The building had an elevator, but the “Out of Order” sign was taped to the door, so I took the stairs. The stairwell smelled like stale cooking oil and wet leaves. Apartment 207. I rang the bell. My other hand was on my belly, over my coat, like that could steady me.
The door opened. Diane Alderman stood there in an old cardigan, her hands covered in dark soil. She looked up at me without any surprise, just tired.
I introduced myself and said I needed to talk. She stepped aside without a word. I walked in, heels clicking on the tile. My coat brushed against the shoe bench and left a wet streak — outside it was drizzling, that fine Pacific Northwest mist that gets into your bones. A neighbor’s dog barked behind a closed door across the hall. It felt like a warning.
Where can I wash my hands? I asked, like I’d been there a hundred times.
Down the hall, second door.
I went into the bathroom, washed my hands, and checked my hair in the mirror. I looked pale, even to myself. I fixed it with a quick pinch of blush and walked to the kitchen.
She was already there, standing at the sink with soap up to her elbows, watching dark water spiral down the drain. Her fingers were trembling. From my end of the room, I could see the dirt under her nails — she’d been repotting plants on a balcony. I felt a tiny jab of pity, then crushed it. She would be fine. She had the cabin up near the river.
I sat down across from her at the small kitchen table. The green walls made the room feel like a dentist’s office, but everything was clean and cared for. A basket of cookies sat on the table, the kind with big walnut chunks.
So, I said, setting my hands flat on the table. Craig is a gentle man. He doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. So I came myself. We’re having a baby, and this condo is where we’re going to live. It’s not personal. It’s just math. You’ve had your life here. Your daughters are grown. The condo is way too big for one person. Craig has a great job, we can provide for the baby, and you can move to your cabin up near the river. Fresh air, a garden. Win-win.
She didn’t react. Just kept wiping the counter with a rag. So I kept going.
Craig told me everything. How you two have been done for years. How he’s been staying for your health. I mean, it’s sweet, but at some point you have to move on. This place needs a baby. It needs us.
I reached into the basket and took one of the cookies. Bit into it. There was a sharp piece of walnut shell in there — I felt it crack against my molar. I made a face, took the wet crumb from my mouth, and wiped it on the linen napkin next to the sugar bowl. Then I wiped my fingers on the same napkin and pushed it aside.
Ugh, sorry, but there’s shell in these, I said.
That’s when she changed. I didn’t see it coming. She stood up, walked to the window, and shut it with both hands. The traffic noise went from a hum to nothing. She turned back, leaned on the counter, and looked at me in this way that made my stomach twist. Her back straightened, like someone had yanked a string from the top of her head.
Craig didn’t tell you the most important thing, she said. Her voice had no shake in it. Not angry. Just flat.
What thing?
She said, This condo isn’t ours. It was my mother’s. She gifted it to me before we got married. Craig has no legal claim. He’s not even on the lease. He’s nobody here.
I laughed — a short, nervous sound. He showed me receipts. He paid for the remodeling.
Six years ago, she said. With money he borrowed from my brother. And that’s not the interesting part. Did he mention he shut down his business eighteen months ago? That his logistics company went bankrupt? That he’s up to his neck in debt and collection agencies have been calling since last November?
I stopped breathing. My hand slid off the table.
She walked to the windowsill, picked up a thick blue folder, and dropped it on the table in front of me.
Open it. Fresh bankruptcy filings. I printed them last night. Chapter Seven. Case number 24-11563. Total liabilities, four hundred twelve thousand seven hundred eighty-three dollars. She said the number like a phone number, slow and clear. That precise number, I remember it.
You’re lying, I said. My voice came out weak.
I don’t need to lie. You can check the court docket online. And by the way, his two suitcases are outside the front door. I put them there an hour ago. His phone number is blocked. Tonight he will show up at your place not with a key to a big condo, but with debt and no job and no car payment. But hey, you’ll have a live-in daddy. That’s what matters, right? The little one will have a father.
I don’t remember what I said after that. Probably nothing. I remember the mascara burning my eyes. I remember standing up, grabbing my purse, and walking out. I didn’t take the folder. I wish I had.
In the car, I just sat for a long time. The raindrops started on the windshield, one at a time. I called Craig. It went to voicemail. I called again. Voicemail. I sent a text: Call me right now. One word came back: Can’t. In meeting.
I drove home on autopilot. My hands were so wet on the wheel I kept wiping them on my jeans. My apartment building, a fourplex on 14th Avenue, looked smaller than it had that morning. There was a dead moth in the hallway light.
I unlocked my door, stepped over Craig’s sneakers in the entryway, and sat on the floor against the wall. Next to the fridge was a magnetic calendar from the food bank my mom used to volunteer at. I’d circled the due date — March 14 — in red Sharpie. I looked at that circle for a long time.
Then I opened my phone again. Not to call him. I opened my banking app. Three charges from the previous week: two hundred twenty-seven forty at The Chop House, eighty-nine fifteen at Royal Palms Golf, three hundred twelve at a place called Emerald Auto Detailing. All on my Chase card. He had used my card for dates he took me on. I never checked because I was too embarrassed to admit I couldn’t afford him.
I laughed — the kind of laugh that comes out like air escaping. Then I called my mom.
Ma? It’s Paige. I’m coming for Thanksgiving. Can you and Dad pick me up at the bus station in Wenatchee?
She started to say something, but I cut her off. I gave her the arrival time. I hung up.
Then I did the thing I should have done months ago. I walked to the front door, took four of Craig’s shirts out of my closet, rolled them into a ball, and stuffed them into a plastic bag from the 76 station. I added his toothbrush, his phone charger, and the spare key he’d left on my hook. I walked outside, set the bag next to the garbage bins, and came back in.
I changed the code on my door lock. The old one was 0913 — his birthday. I typed in 0324. My birthday. The lock beeped three times. Done.
Then I called him. He answered on the third ring.
Paige? What’s going on? I told you I’m in a meeting.
I met your wife today, I said. Diane. Nice lady. She showed me some papers. Bankruptcy. Chapter Seven. Four hundred twelve thousand. And the condo? It’s not yours. It never was.
Silence.
Your stuff is outside my building, I went on. I changed my door code. Don’t come back here. Lose my number.
Paige, wait, I can explain —
I hung up. He called back. I let it ring. Then I blocked him. The screen went dark, and the tiny blue phone icon in my contacts list turned gray.
I sat down on the floor again, with my back against the old radiator, and I ate one of the leftover cookies from the bakery I’d brought home on Tuesday. This one had no shell in it. It was soft and almost good.
The baby kicked — a flutter, not a real kick, but I’d take it. I put my hands over my belly and said, out loud, Well, girl, we’re on our own.
Then I stood up, walked to my closet, and took the small suitcase my grandmother had given me for college. I opened it on the bed and started packing for Thanksgiving.
