In October, My Husband Left a Manila Envelope on Our Kitchen Table and Walked Out Into the Rain
“I’m fifty-four years old, Claire,” Greg whispered, his formal tone slipping away into a harsh rasp.
“In three years I won’t be able to hold a pen to sign my own name.”
“You tried to protect me alone, Greg,” I said, pressing his trembling fingers flat against the Formica tabletop.
“Now you are going to let me protect us.”
He looked up at me, his brown eyes dull with exhaustion and fear.
“Arthur hired two commercial litigation lawyers from Nashville.”
“I have Marcus Vance and your original corporate filings,” I said.
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