Chapter 8: The Agreement
When I came back in, everyone was seated.
Renee looked at me, then at Angela, trying to read what had happened in the hallway.
Angela gave her the smallest shake of her head — *not now.*
Patricia poured water into four glasses.
Nobody had touched the pitcher until that moment.
"Are we ready to continue?" she said.
"Yes," Dad said.
He looked at me.
I nodded.
Renee opened the separation agreement again.
She turned to the second page.
"Angela is not contesting the separation," she said.
"She's asking for sixty days.
Not to delay — to make arrangements.
She'll move to her sister's during that period."
Dad looked at Patricia.
"That's reasonable," Patricia said.
"There's one condition," Renee continued.
"Angela would like the text messages handled with discretion.
Not deleted — she's not asking for that.
She understands they exist.
She's asking that they not be shared publicly or used in any proceeding beyond what's necessary for the separation."
"That's acceptable," Patricia said.
"Provided the separation proceeds without dispute."
"It will," Renee said.
She looked at Angela.
Angela nodded.
Dad leaned forward.
"I want one thing on the record.
Not in the agreement — just said out loud, in this room."
Everyone waited.
"Lily is my daughter," he said.
"She is the first priority in my home.
That was true before this marriage and it will be true after it.
I should have made that clearer from the beginning.
I didn't.
And I'm sorry for that."
He was looking at me when he said the last part.
I hadn't expected it.
My eyes stung.
I looked down at the table.
"I know, Dad," I said.
Angela was quiet.
She was looking at her hands again.
"Angela," Dad said.
Not unkindly.
"I don't think you're a bad person.
I think we made a mistake.
Both of us.
And I think the person who paid for it was Lily."
Angela looked up.
Her jaw was tight, but her eyes were wet.
"Yes," she said.
"She was."
Renee uncapped a pen and slid the agreement toward Angela.
Angela picked up the pen.
She held it for a moment, looking at the signature line.
Then she signed.
Renee signed as witness.
Patricia countersigned on our side.
The folder closed.
It was that quiet.
No shouting.
No dramatic collapse.
Just a pen, a signature, and the sound of a folder being closed on a Thursday afternoon.
Dad and I rode the elevator down in silence.
When we stepped out onto the street, the air was cold and sharp.
Dad put his arm around my shoulders.
We walked to the car.
He unlocked it.
I got in.
He got in.
He put the key in the ignition and then just sat there for a moment, not starting it.
"Dad," I said.
"Give me a second," he said.
I gave him a second.
May you like
Then he started the car.
And we drove home — just the two of us, for the first time in a long time.
