I Paid for the House, So I Sold It

Now she used the word "take."

I opened the purchase contract.

Property owner: Dirk Fox.

Mortgage holder: Dirk Fox.

The down payment transfer was saved on my cloud drive.

The renovation contract was there too.

Moira saw the screen, and her expression changed.

"Why are you digging through all this?"

I locked the screen.

"Can't sleep."

She lowered her voice.

"Don't wake Ronald."

I glanced at the master bedroom door.

Someone else's sign hung on that door.

Someone else's throw lay on that bed.

Someone else's medicine sat in that room.

I picked up my phone and messaged Fern James, the agent.

"This place. Can you move it fast?"

Fern wrote back right away.

"You're really willing to let it go?"

I replied:

"Yes."

The white noise in the master bedroom cut out for a second.

Moira spun around and knocked on the door at once.

"Ronald? Are you awake?"

I set my phone face down on the coffee table.

If the master bedroom of this place wasn't mine,

then this place didn't need to be ours either.

The next morning, I opened the fridge.

My coffee beans were gone.

The yogurt was gone too.

Where the hot sauce used to be, there was a row of low-sugar oat milk.

A sticky note was stuck to the fridge door.

Ronald can't have caffeine, cold drinks, or sugar.

The handwriting was Moira's.

She came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of porridge.

"Keep it light for now. Ronald can't stand strong smells."

I looked at that bowl.

Last night my stomach was killing me, and she never asked whether I could eat.

Now she remembered Ronald couldn't stand a smell.

I picked up my bag.

"I'm not eating."

Moira frowned.

"Acting up again? You're going to sulk over one breakfast?"

I changed into my shoes.

"Save it for coaxing him."

Her voice dropped.

"Dirk, watch your mouth."

I went to the closet.

Ronald's coats, hoodies, and scarves hung in the main wardrobe.

My garment bag had been moved out to the balcony, dust on the bottom of it.

I picked up the suit.

Moira followed me in.

"He gets anxious if his things are left outside. Don't read into it."

"And my suit on the balcony doesn't make anyone anxious?"

She pressed her lips together.

"You really have to compete with a sick man?"

My phone buzzed.

A message popped up in the Gilbert family chat.

Renee Gilbert had sent a voice note.

"Moira, how did Ronald sleep last night? Don't let Dirk go bothering him in the master bedroom. A sick man can't take that kind of strain."

Moira wrote back:

"Don't worry. I've got it handled."

Renee sent another:

"Dirk's a man, he can take it. A few days of swallowing it won't hurt him. Once you're married you're all one family."

No one asked where I slept last night.

No one asked whether my stomach was better.

I screenshotted the chat.

Moira saw, and her face soured.

"What are you taking screenshots for?"

"Keepsake."

She reached for my phone.

I stepped back half a pace.

"Don't touch it."

Her hand stopped in midair.

"Dirk, when did you get so prickly?"

I put the suit back in the bag.

"Your family's a lot pricklier when they talk. I'm a slow learner."

That morning, I took a half day off.

I exported the down payment records.

Exported the monthly mortgage deductions.

Exported the renovation invoices.

Exported the HOA fees, the appliance orders, the furnishings list.

In the spreadsheet, Moira's actual mortgage payments came to a few scattered transfers.

The only furniture on her card was the TV and the dining table.

I messaged Sophie Matthews.

"Help me work out a pre-marital property settlement."

She wrote back fast.

"You finally woke up?"

I replied:

"Skip it. Just run the numbers."