My father came over again two days later.
He arrived carrying a paper bag with sandwiches and a small stack of documents he had printed from the information I had sent him.
I had expected him to arrive with more questions.
He did.
But he also brought lunch, which made the whole thing feel less like an examination.
We sat at the kitchen table.
I opened the laptop and showed him the latest account information.
He read through it carefully.
Every so often, he stopped to ask me what a particular entry meant.
When I knew, I explained.
When I did not, we marked it for follow-up.
Neither of us tried to force an answer from incomplete information.
That was harder than it sounded.
I wanted the uncertainty to end.
I wanted to know that the money was safe, the accounts were understood, and the divorce had not left me with something I would discover only after it was too late to respond properly.
My father understood that desire.
He also knew it could make me careless.
“Don't let the fact that you're frightened decide what the records mean,” he said.
“I know.”
“You've said that before.”
I gave him a tired look.
“Are you going to say it every time?”
“If I think you need to hear it.”
I shook my head, but I smiled.
We continued.
The records did not tell us everything.
Some arrangements needed more documentation.
Some access details were still being clarified.
A few entries were unfamiliar to me, but unfamiliar did not mean improper.
My father was careful about that distinction.
He had spent his working life learning how often people misunderstood records because they wanted them to confirm a story they already believed.
I did not want to make that mistake.
Still, the process was beginning to change the way I remembered my marriage.
I thought about all the times Landon had told me he had taken care of something.
He had handled the bills.
He had arranged the payment.
He had reviewed the paperwork.
He had spoken to the bank.
At the time, those statements had sounded reassuring.
Now I was realizing that I had often accepted the result without asking to see the process.
My father noticed that I had stopped reading.
“What are you thinking about?”
“How easy it was to let him handle everything.”
“You were married. You were sharing a life.”
“I know, but I didn't have to stop understanding it.”
He nodded.
That was the part I could no longer avoid.
I had not needed to manage every detail myself.
I had needed to understand enough to know what I was agreeing to.
There was a difference.
I had not seen it clearly until now.
My father closed one of the documents.
“Don't spend the whole day blaming yourself.”
“I'm not blaming myself.”
He looked at me.
I sighed.
“All right. Maybe a little.”
He pushed the paper bag toward me.
“Eat something.”
I took out a sandwich.
For a few minutes, we talked about ordinary things.
The weather.
A neighbor who had decided to renovate his kitchen.
A television program my father had been watching.
It felt strange to discuss anything that did not involve my marriage.
Then again, perhaps that was what I needed.
My life could not become nothing but a collection of questions about Landon.
After lunch, we returned to the records.
My father asked me to explain the account arrangements as if I were describing them to someone who had never heard of them.
I began with the personal accounts.
Then I explained the cards.
When I reached the business account, I had to stop several times.
I knew how it was used.
I knew what kinds of expenses belonged there.
I did not know every detail of the access permissions or every document connected to its operation.
I felt embarrassed.
My father did not interrupt.
When I finished, he asked me what I thought we should do next.
“Request the remaining records.”
“And after that?”
“Compare them with what we already have.”
“And if something doesn't match?”
“We ask for an explanation before deciding what it means.”
He nodded.
“That's a sensible plan.”
I looked at him.
“You're making me do this on purpose.”
“Do what?”
“Explain everything out loud.”
He gave me a small smile.
“You understand more when you have to put it into your own words.”
I wanted to disagree.
I could not.
For years, I had relied on Landon's explanations because they were easy to follow and usually ended with a confident conclusion.
Now I was discovering how much I needed to understand the questions before I could judge the answers.
We spent another hour reviewing the outstanding items.
Then my father gathered his papers.
Before leaving, he asked whether Landon had responded to my request for written details.
I checked my phone.
There was a new message.
Landon said he would send the information when he had everything together.
I showed my father.
He read it and handed the phone back.
“That sounds like something we can wait for.”
“You don't think I should push him?”
“Not unless there's a deadline or another reason you need the information sooner.”
I put the phone away.
The answer disappointed me.
I had wanted him to tell me what the message meant.
Instead, he reminded me that it might not mean anything beyond what it said.
I was learning that uncertainty was not always a warning.
Sometimes it was simply a gap that had not yet been filled.
After my father left, I cleaned the kitchen.
I washed the glasses, put the leftover sandwiches away, and wiped the table.
The folder remained in the drawer.
I did not need to look at it again that evening.
I went for a walk around the neighborhood.
The air was warm, and people were returning home from work.
A man carried groceries toward an apartment building.
A woman stood outside her house talking on the phone.
Someone was watering a row of plants beside a front step.
I watched them as I walked.
Their ordinary lives made me realize how narrow my attention had become.
Every thought returned to the divorce.
Every question led back to Landon.
Every uncertainty felt personal.
I needed to remember that the world was larger than the things I did not yet know.
When I returned home, I made dinner and ate at the table.
I did not open the laptop.
I did not check the account balances.
I let the evening pass without turning every quiet moment into an investigation.
Before bed, I looked at the dresser.
The pale mark on my finger had begun to fade.
I rubbed it with my thumb.
For a long time, I had believed that losing Landon meant losing the person who knew how to manage the complicated parts of my life.
I was beginning to understand that I could learn those things myself.
It would take time.
I would make mistakes.
I would sometimes have to ask questions that made me feel inexperienced.
But I would no longer treat my own uncertainty as a reason to hand over control.
The next morning, I returned to the folder.
There were still unanswered questions.
There were still records to request.
And there was still a message from Landon that I had not received the details for.
I added those items to the list.
Then I started with the first one.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: When Landon Finally Answered Me, I Had to Resist the Habit of Accepting His Explanation Before I Had Checked It for Myself
My Marriage Had Just Ended, but My Father Was Already Looking at the Money I Had Forgotten to Protect
Part 6 of 20
