Simone set down the towel. For the first time since the foyer freeze, her composure loosened enough to show fatigue. "I do short sales because my parents lost a house in 2009 and nobody explained the process to them in language that didn't feel like punishment. They were ashamed in a way that rearranged our whole family. I became the person who sits at tables with banks and families and tries to make the ending less vicious. Your husband found me after a housing counselor referral. He was polite and terrified. He paid my retainer late and apologized too much. He asked, every week, whether there was a way to wait until you finished your program without losing the buyer. There wasn't. The math stopped being patient."
"Did you encourage him not to tell me?" Nia asked.
"No," Simone said. "I told him twice that spouses who find out at the last minute rarely forgive the secrecy even when they forgive the finances. He said he understood. He said he was going to tell you after your final presentation. Then the closing timeline accelerated and your early flight ruined his script. That's the truth. It isn't noble. It isn't simple. But it isn't an affair and it isn't a kidnapping of your life for sport."
Nia looked at the stack of boxes labeled NIA'S OFFICE and felt a surge of something like grief for the woman who had left this house believing the floors were permanent.
"What would you do?" Nia asked. "If you were me."
Simone shook her head. "I won't answer that. I'm not you. I will say this: the Oak Hollow house is sound. The school is better than the rumor mill suggests. Your daughter already loves the tree. And your husband is going to spend a long time trying to earn back the right to surprise you with anything larger than breakfast. Whether you let him is your work, not mine."