Tomorrow, my parents will arrive at the Ontario Superior Courthouse for their preliminary court date. It will be the first time they’ve been in the same room in almost three years.
My father received the papers from my mother’s lawyer last month. He is anxious, and, at moments, infuriatingly morose. He insists that everything in his life has failed him, including me. I am trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore him.
The best case scenario is that the judge will order an equitable division of their assets, which is to say, the house. Our house. Or, as the neighbours have taken to calling it, the crazy house. I suspect that we won’t be missed.
My mother just called. I didn’t pick up.