My parents met me at the San Diego airport. Baggage claim. My dad, Frank, was holding a sign he’d made on printer paper. WELCOME HOME, EMMIE. My mom, Linda, was holding a container of chicken soup. At ten in the morning. In April.
“You’re eating for two,” she said. “Don’t argue.”
I didn’t argue. I just cried. Right there by carousel four.
My parents live in a little blue house in Point Loma with a jacaranda tree in the front yard. My dad hung a hammock under it when I was in high school. It’s still there.
I slept in my childhood bedroom that first night. The same purple comforter. The same glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
I lay there looking up at those stars and thought about Thomas holding that onesie in his hands. And saying nothing.
The next morning, my dad sat down across from me at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
“Emmie. I’m going to say one thing. And then I’ll stay out of it.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“You need a lawyer. A good one. Today.”
“Dad, I don’t know if I want a divorce.”
“I didn’t say a divorce lawyer,” he said. “I said a lawyer. Somebody who understands money. Because if what you told your mother last night is true, that family’s been living on your dime for seven years. And the minute they figure out you’re not coming back, they’re going to come after more of it.”
He was right. My father is usually right.
That afternoon, my mother called her friend from church, whose daughter is a family law attorney.
Amanda Reyes. Forty-four years old. A partner at a firm in downtown San Diego, licensed in both California and Texas. She’d spent twelve years in Dallas before moving home.
Her office was on the eighteenth floor of a glass building on Broadway. You could see the whole harbor from her window. The ships. The bridge to Coronado.
I sat down across from her. I told her everything. The dinner. The divorce. The onesie. The seven years of paying for things.
Amanda listened for an hour. Taking notes on a yellow legal pad. She didn’t interrupt once.
When I finished, she set down her pen.
“Emma,” she said. “I need every financial record you have. Every bank statement. Every transfer. Every text message about money. Every email. Everything. Going back to the day you got married.”
“That’s seven years.”
“I know,” she said. “I have a very good paralegal.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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