The day after he left, I receive a barrage of texts on my phone: We need to discuss money, he says. Practical matters. Arrange the finances.
I inquire if he intends to pay the mortgage due in a few days, and he refuses to respond.
A few days later, he needs “stuff”: Clean clothes, a razor he’d forgotten. Urgently. He’s coming to the house to pick them up.
No, I say. I’ve changed the locks.
I betrayed his trust, he says. I am not acting in good faith.
The cleaning lady comes a few days later, and I explain the situation. She is glad he is gone, she says, and tells me what she’d really thought of him – not much, he seemed to make me sad – and then goes off to vacuum.
Later, she comes back and waits to get my attention, silently, outside my office.
I want to tell you something, she says. When you were having all the shots for the baby, I found a card in his pants when I was doing the laundry. It was for an apartment manager. For an apartment. I wondered why he was looking for an apartment when you were going to the baby doctor.
I did not think it was my business to tell you, she tells me. I did not know what to say.
I understand, I say.
I will tell that to a judge, she says.
I had not asked her to, but thank her anyway.