The number her financial advisor said on the phone was everything Grant had given her in six years.
The house, liquidated in the divorce. The joint accounts, split per the settlement. The photography clients she’d built while he was building his career. The careful, embarrassed savings of a woman who’d always spent less than she had because some part of her knew she was going to need it one day.
She had looked at that number for a long time before she understood what it was for.
“Transfer it,” she said.
A silence on the line.
“Sienna, this is—”
“I know what it is. Transfer it.”
Another silence, shorter this time.
“Done,” her advisor said. “You understand this is not reversible.”
“That’s the point.”
She hung up, sat in her car in the arena parking lot for four minutes, and then we
