By the beginning of the following week, I had established a routine.
I checked the records in the morning.
I followed up on the questions that needed attention.
I kept copies of the responses.
Then I put the folder away and tried to live the rest of my day.
It was not an exciting routine.
It was steady.
I needed steady.
The divorce had taken enough of my attention without allowing every financial question to consume whatever remained.
On Monday, I reviewed the latest information and noticed that one of my questions had not been answered.
I checked the date of the original request.
Then I looked at the notes from the call I had made afterward.
The matter was still outstanding.
I wrote a brief follow-up asking what additional information was needed.
I did not assume that the delay meant someone was hiding something.
I also did not pretend the question had disappeared.
I sent the request and recorded the date.
Then I moved on to the next item.
That afternoon, Landon called.
His name appeared on my screen, and I felt my stomach tighten before I answered.
For a moment, I considered letting it go to voicemail.
I had no reason to avoid a conversation simply because I was uncomfortable.
I answered.
“Hi.”
“Hi. I wanted to see how things were going with the remaining arrangements.”
His voice sounded familiar.
That was the difficult part.
I could still remember what it felt like to hear him call after a long day.
I could still remember the relief of knowing he was on the other end of the phone.
But the sound of his voice no longer told me whether a financial arrangement was complete or whether a document was accurate.
I had to keep those things separate.
“I'm still reviewing the information,” I said. “There are a few points I need clarified.”
“Which points?”
I opened my notes.
I explained the questions as clearly as I could.
There was a pause.
Then Landon said he thought the arrangements were straightforward.
I waited for him to explain the details.
He repeated that everything had been handled as expected.
I felt the old urge to accept that answer.
It would have been easy.
It would have allowed me to end the call and stop thinking about the matter.
Instead, I asked him to identify the specific documents he was referring to so I could compare them with the records I had received.
He sounded impatient for a moment.
Then he said he would look for the information.
“All right,” I replied.
The conversation ended without an argument.
I stood beside the kitchen table holding the phone.
My hands were not shaking, but I could feel the tension in my shoulders.
I had not accused him.
I had not challenged his character.
I had asked for details.
That was all.
Still, the call left me unsettled.
I called my father.
He listened as I described what had happened.
“Did he answer the question?”
“Not completely.”
“Then you know what remains to be done.”
I sat down.
“I hate having to do this.”
“I know.”
“It feels like I'm treating him as if I don't trust him at all.”
My father was quiet for a moment.
“You don't have to decide what you feel about Landon in order to check a document.”
I looked at the folder.
The words made sense.
I had been treating the financial review as though it required me to reach a final judgment about my former husband.
Either he was trustworthy, or he was not.
Either I had been right to trust him, or I had been foolish.
But the records were not asking me to answer those questions.
They were asking me to establish facts.
I could do that without deciding what every memory meant.
“I think I understand,” I said.
“Good. Keep the questions specific.”
After we hung up, I returned to the kitchen.
I wrote a short note about the call and the information Landon had agreed to look for.
I did not add my interpretation of his tone.
I did not write that he had sounded guilty or that he had seemed innocent.
I recorded what had happened.
It was the fairest thing I could do.
The next day, I received a response to one of my outstanding requests.
It clarified part of the issue I had been checking.
I read it carefully, then compared it with the other documents.
The information was consistent with what I had already confirmed.
I marked the question as answered.
For a moment, I felt almost disappointed.
I had become so accustomed to worrying that I had started expecting every new piece of information to reveal another problem.
Instead, the records had answered a question.
Nothing more.
I sat back and let myself feel relieved.
That was allowed, too.
Later in the week, my father came by to review the progress.
He noticed that several items on the list had been marked complete.
“You've been getting through them,” he said.
“Slowly.”
“Slowly is fine if you're getting the answers.”
I showed him the latest documents.
He checked them against the notes and agreed that the information supported the conclusions I had recorded.
We did not celebrate.
We simply moved to the next question.
That was becoming our way of working.
One issue at a time.
One record at a time.
No guesses.
No dramatic conclusions.
Before he left, my father asked whether I had been sleeping better.
“A little.”
“Are you still checking the phone every few minutes?”
I looked away.
“Not every few minutes.”
He smiled faintly.
“Progress.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was grateful he could still make me laugh.
After he left, I put the documents away.
The house felt less like a place where I was waiting for something bad to happen.
I was beginning to see it as my home again.
I made dinner.
I watered the plants near the window.
I spent the evening reading instead of reviewing financial records.
The next morning, I checked the outstanding list.
There were still questions to answer.
There were also items I had completed.
I could see the difference now.
An unanswered question was not proof of wrongdoing.
A confident explanation was not proof that everything was correct.
Both needed to be tested against the information available.
I closed the folder and went about my day.
I was not finished.
But I no longer felt that every unresolved detail had the power to undo whatever progress I had made.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: The Day I Finally Felt Capable of Managing the Records Alone, I Understood That My Father’s Warning Had Been About More Than Money
My Marriage Had Just Ended, but My Father Was Already Looking at the Money I Had Forgotten to Protect
Part 11 of 20
