is a hard job, especially for such a long time...”
“Once you commit to something like that, it’s impossible to change your mind,” Adele said. “You don’t wake up one day and say to your marginally conscious mother, ‘I think I’ll go back to school now. I’ll try to find someone to come in and wash and feed you.’ Imagine how terrifying that would be to someone who has lived on the fringes of understanding for years. I just knew I was in for the duration. I knew my mother’s care was good.”
“Did you ever turn her care over to others? To home health practitioners?”
“Sure, for an hour here and there. I observed, I was present the first few times, I monitored afterward like a detective. That’s how we got by.”
Ross opened her top drawer and pulled out a printed list of names. She slid it across the desk to Adele. “Here are the best counselors I know. They’ve helped people in all sorts of transitions, not just displaced or reentry clients. One of them was my counselor for a long time. I’m not telling you which one. You’re free to give this list to your sister if you like. A little emotional support could really help. Professional emotional support.”
“Thank you,” Adele said. “I’ll encourage that idea.”
“Adele, I think you should consider that, as well.”
“What?”
“Counseling.”
“I don’t have a lot of time, what with my job, my new exercise and diet program, trying to get the house in shape...”
“These counselors keep all kinds of hours.”
“I’ll think it over.”
“Or, you can use one of our counselors,” Ross said.
“For myself? Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?” she asked.
“How so? We all have the same objective here. We rely on each other regularly—use each other as sounding boards, help each other clear out the cobwebs. I’ve been here a long time. My husband used to beat me, then left me with four kids under the age of ten. I got on my feet with a lot of support from this office, got my degree and my master’s in counseling and have worked here since. Now if I have a problem, I talk to Fran or one of the other counselors. And sometimes they talk to me.”
“And that’s okay?” Adele asked.
“If you’re comfortable,” she said. “If you feel the chemistry is right. On this, you have to trust your instincts. Your gut. No judgment from anyone on that—you talk to the person you trust and feel safe with. That choice is all on you.”
Adele felt like she could cry, she was so grateful. Instead, she composed herself and said, “That’s very generous of you, Ross. Thank you.”
“It’s what we do,” she said. “Getting people on their feet—it’s a very rewarding mission.”
* * *
The first week in June, Justine received an email. Her divorce was final. She had all the finalized and notarized documents saved to her cloud account and printed out and filed in her locked desk drawer. She gave copies to Scott. Her car was now registered in her name only; she had all new charge accounts. Their financial management team had immediately separated, divided and created new accounts and trusts for each of them. The custody situation was left as joint unless one or both of their daughters made a decision otherwise—they were entitled to their own choices since they were both over sixteen.
After receiving the notice of the divorce, she cried all day. She asked herself for the millionth time, How did this happen to us? She had trusted him, and not only had she been wrong to, she didn’t think she’d ever trust a man again. If there was anything more sad than realizing you no longer loved someone, it was realizing you had not one ounce of respect for the person you had trusted with your love for so many years.
At the end of the day, her face puffy and chafed, she had had it. She was done.
“I spent the day at home, alone, crying,” she told Logan, her bedroom door closed.