Janet's office smelled faintly of lemon polish.
It was in a brick building beside the courthouse.
I had visited it once after the funeral.
Back then I carried a death certificate and a folder with Paul's account numbers.
This time I carried photographs of a child.
Janet offered coffee.
I declined.
She read the laboratory report carefully.
Then she checked the other pages.
"Do you know whether Paul acknowledged paternity formally?"
"I don't."
"Did he sign anything with the mother?"
"I have a letter."
She read that as well.
Her face remained thoughtful.
"A private test and these letters are important information," she said.
"But we should verify the legal records before assuming what anyone is entitled to."
I asked whether I would lose the house.
She looked directly at me.
"Nothing you've shown me means someone can simply take your house."
I let out a breath.
"But could she inherit?"
"That depends on state law, the way the estate was settled, parentage, and which assets were part of the estate. We need to review the file."
I nodded.
She asked about the insurance.
I showed her the beneficiary designation.
"A properly designated insurance benefit usually passes under its own contract," she explained.
"That's different from property passing through an estate."
I held the folder tighter.
"I don't want to take anything from a child."
Janet took off her glasses.
"You can be fair without making promises before the facts are known."
I stared at her.
"I didn't even know she existed."
"I understand."
There were two hours of questions.
Some had answers.
Some needed old bank statements.
Janet suggested independent counsel for Grace if questions arose about Ivy's rights.
She also reminded me that Ivy's welfare and my financial decisions were separate matters.
I left with a list of records to locate.
No dramatic court order.
No sudden solution.
Just work.
That felt strangely reassuring.
I stopped at a diner before driving home.
Paul and I used to eat there after appointments.
He always ordered fries even if he said he wasn't hungry.
I sat in the corner booth.
The waitress recognized me.
"Haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been busy."
She brought me iced tea.
I looked around at the red stools and the faded photographs on the wall.
Everything had survived Paul.
Even the chipped sugar bowl on my table.
I had survived him too.
But surviving wasn't the same as understanding.
At home I found the estate binder in the upstairs closet.
I spread the documents across the dining table.
Deeds.
Account statements.
Tax returns.
Receipts from funeral expenses.
The binder had been neatly organized by Paul's mother, Denise, while I was barely able to function.
I had thanked her without opening it.
Now I examined every page.
A small account caught my attention.
It was in Paul's name alone.
The statements stopped a few months before he died.
The balance wasn't large.
But there were recurring transfers to a bank account I didn't recognize.
The amounts changed.
Sometimes one hundred dollars.
Sometimes three hundred.
Once there was a transfer of six hundred after Christmas.
I looked at the dates.
They overlapped with the period Grace said Paul knew about Ivy.
I wrote the numbers down.
Then I closed the folder.
I wasn't certain what the transfers were.
I didn't need to be certain to feel betrayed again.
Claire came over after her shift.
I showed her the statements.
"Maybe he was helping with expenses," she said.
"He told me we couldn't afford to replace the washing machine."
"That was around the same time?"
"Yes."
She didn't try to explain it away.
Instead she asked what I had eaten.
I pointed to an empty cereal box.
She opened the refrigerator.
"We're making pasta."
I helped chop tomatoes.
It was the first useful thing I had done all day.
While the water boiled, Claire asked whether I wanted to speak to Paul's mother.
"Not yet."
Denise had been ill the year Paul died.
She was better now, but she still tired easily.
I worried the news would hurt her.
I also worried she might already know.
That possibility was worse.
After dinner I called Grace.
"I'm not calling about meeting Ivy," I said.
"That's all right."
"Did Paul help with expenses?"
"Sometimes. Hannah kept a record."
"Was it enough?"
Grace sighed.
"Not reliably."
I stared at my own bank statements.
"Did Hannah ever ask him to tell me?"
"Many times."
"And he kept saying later."
"Yes."
I thanked her and ended the call.
For several minutes I sat at the table.
Then I removed Paul's photograph from the mantel.
I didn't throw it away.
I placed it face down inside a drawer.
For that night, I needed the house without his smile watching me.
The old account was not the only financial discovery.
There were receipts from a bookstore I'd never visited.
A payment to an after-school program.
A charge for children's shoes.
Each amount was ordinary.
Together they described a life Paul had kept outside our house.
I showed Janet the receipts at our next appointment.
She suggested we separate historical questions from any current legal obligations.
"You can be upset about how your marital money was used," she told me.
"That doesn't tell us the status of every present claim."
I wrote that down.
She asked whether I had identified any joint debts I hadn't known about.
I checked the records carefully.
We found no evidence of new loans attached to our home.
That was a relief.
I still felt sick looking at the children's shoes receipt.
Paul had once told me he couldn't afford a winter coat until his next paycheck.
I remembered bringing him to the department store and buying one anyway.
I had been proud to help.
Now I wondered whether he had been short of money because he was helping Ivy.
It wasn't an excuse for hiding her.
It was another possible explanation that complicated the story.
That evening I drove past the repair shop where Paul used to work.
The sign had been replaced.
A younger mechanic came out to move a car.
He didn't recognize me.
I stayed in the parking lot for a moment.
Paul's world had continued without him.
New employees used the same garage bays.
Customers brought in the same kind of broken vehicles.
Nobody there needed to know why I was parked outside.
I drove away.
At home, the washing machine made a knocking sound.
I stood over it, listening.
Paul would have opened the back panel before dinner.
I called a repair company instead.
The technician arrived on Friday.
He explained that a worn part was causing the noise.
I paid for the repair.
It was expensive but manageable.
I thought about Paul saying we couldn't afford a new machine years earlier.
I wondered whether the old machine had made us argue less because he could fix it himself.
Then I stopped making the appliance into a symbol.
It was a machine.
The part had worn out.
I was allowed to solve one problem without returning to my marriage.
When the technician left, I started a load of towels.
The machine ran quietly.
I sat on the sofa and listened until the cycle finished.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: Paul’s Mother Visited My Kitchen and Revealed the Silence He Had Shared With Her
The Black Canvas Bag Beside Paul’s Headstone Held a Photograph I Had Never Seen
Part 5 of 16
