“I know.”
“Are you still at the hospital?”
“For another hour.”
“Then I have a car waiting downstairs.”
At 1:40 p.m., I left St. Vincent through the private maternity exit.
Not because I felt strong.
I didn’t.
Every step hurt.
But Rachel had arranged a nurse, a driver, and a postpartum specialist to come with me.
We did not go to the Back Bay townhouse Nathan and I had shared.
We went first to our house in Manchester-by-the-Sea.
Technically, it had been purchased during our marriage.
But the down payment came from a Bennett family investment vehicle.
The furnishings were mine.
The art was mine.
The wine collection had been inherited from my grandfather.
Half the electronics had been purchased through my personal account.
And several boxes of corporate records Nathan had casually stored in his home office were subject to preservation under my authority as trustee.
Three moving crews were already waiting when I arrived.
Rachel stood in the foyer wearing jeans and holding a legal pad.
“You look terrible.”
“I gave birth yesterday.”
“Fair.”
She glanced at the baby carrier.
“And she looks perfect.”
“She is.”
For the next two hours, I sat in a chair while professionals removed everything that legally belonged to me.
My grandmother’s dining table.
The Persian rugs.
My art collection.
The nursery furniture I had purchased myself.
My jewelry safe.
Personal records.
Family photographs.
And every corporate document Rachel had identified for lawful preservation.
We did not touch Nathan’s belongings.
