Four hours after Felix received the letter, my phone rang.
“Rachel.”
He said my name differently.
Like someone whose understanding of his own life had just shifted.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.” “The income number…”
“Yes?”
“Is that actually what you make?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Several years.”
Silence.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I almost laughed.
“When exactly would I have told you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You spent two years coming home repeating your mother’s opinions about what I contributed. During which one of those conversations was I supposed to present you with my financial statements?”
He didn’t answer.
Finally:
“I thought the firm wasn’t doing well.”
“No.”
“I thought you were struggling.”
“No.”
“Mom kept saying…”
“I know what your mother kept saying.”
Another silence.
“So she was wrong.”
“Yes.”
Then he asked about the house.
“Diana’s letter says you’re keeping it.”
“That is what I intend to do.”
“And sixty-three percent…”
“Documented.”
“I had no idea.”
“I know.”
“You were paying all that?”
“Yes.”
“While I was saying you contributed nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Because my mother said…”
“Yes.”
His voice changed.
“I need to call you back.”
An hour later, Felix called again.
This time, he sounded shaken.
“I talked to my mother.”
I waited.
“She knew.”
“Knew what?”
“About your income.”
I stopped moving.
“What?”
“She has a friend with connections in the financial industry. Not at your firm, but apparently close enough that she had some idea what you earned.”
I said nothing.
