To save legal costs, I’m putting together the supporting documents for the arbitrator. Mostly, it’s account statements: This is the mortgage, here’s the deed, that sort of thing.

But we’re also putting together an argument that I should be reimbursed for some of my legal costs, and to do that, we have to illustrate the ways in which he has stymied this legal process for nearly a year.

There are a lot of documents to go through. Hundreds of emails. Emails demanding his skis and my cooperation. Legal documents I don’t quite understand demanding spousal maintenance, even though we earn roughly the same amount of money. Emails denying the existence of accounts, and more emails admitting those accounts’ existence.

One email from him informs me if I did not turn over his new iPhone, he would cancel my health insurance. The subject line: “The Phone or your health insurance.” It was followed by a notification that since I hadn’t turned the phone over fast enough, he was canceling the insurance anyway.

And so on.

I try to just follow my lawyer’s letter and pull documents that support the points he’s trying to make. I can’t make sense of any of it any more, and when I try to, I can feel knots forming in the back of my neck. They hurt, so I stop thinking and just follow the script I’ve been given.

I’m reading through all of it and even nine months later, even after the Lawyer has told me, “No, you don’t cancel health insurance until things are settled,” I still feel like I need to respond, say something, explain why it is I didn’t want to give him the damn thing, how this isn’t my fault.

But everything I say just turns into a bigger argument in my mind – I said that because he did that but then he comes back with he did this because I did that and so on and on and on.

It exhausts me, this web of justifications I’m trapped in.

I scramble over to the attorney’s office at the last possible minute and give the documents to the paralegal. I explain the various emails to her and why I’m including them. She runs highlighter through the important points so she doesn’t forget later.

She reads that subject line and her eyes pop.

I get ready to explain myself, but she doesn’t ask.

She only says, “Wow. That just says it all.”

The arbitration is rescheduled, but since I’ve already got an appointment with my attorney to assemble all the paperwork, we decide to go ahead with that.

We’re assembling a letter that explains everything to the arbitrator: Who I am, what I think the asset division should be and why, and what the other issues are and my proposed resolutions. It shouldn’t be hard, and in fact, it isn’t: I had put together a spreadsheet within days after The Departed left – you keep this, I keep that.

I’m in the fortunate position of having enough to go around – we can each walk away with a certain amount of money and stuff, and we don’t have any custody or child support issues to be resolved. It’s really just math – basic addition and division. It should have been a very simple matter to resolve and we should have been finished months ago.

I sit with my attorney in his office, where I’ve always been completely at ease. There are long silences while he types and summarizes; I listen to the ticking of a small antique wall clock and I realize, it’s just like the clock my grandmother had. I used to lie in bed in the morning and listen to it tick.

It’s a safe sound. Soothing. Comforting.

He walks me through my life story. Born and raised in New York City. Attended a prestigious high school; admission only for the few who pass a highly-competitive entrance exam. Started working at a prestigious Wall Street firm before I had my college degree; finished at night with a 3.9 GPA. Vice President. Prestigious, accomplished. I’m great on paper.

Then I  get married the first time and it all starts to become muddy – the timeline more complex. Three moves in three years; urgent job-hopping when his whims took us in a different direction. I simplify things; the attorney simplifies further.

I walk him through the second marriage. The words tumble out and he cannot keep up anymore – the chaos is too immense. I have to keep stopping, circling back, re-explaining. I am trying to convey things – very personal things leading to the one unforgivable betrayal – and I can’t get them across.

It’s not that I’m a poor communicator, or he’s a bad listener. It’s just that none of it makes any sense.

Gradually, he forms it into a kind of narrative for the mediator.

I sit quietly and listen to the ticking and wonder how all those things can add up to the same person.

There’s a box of tissues on his desk, and I feel like I should want to reach for them, but all the emotion just lingers oh-so-slightly below the surface.

We get through that and get to the easy stuff. Math. I clarify all the assets and we assemble a proposed division of assets. I can do this. Math is nothing personal.

At the end, I look at it all and I ask, it seems like the money works out so that I can stay in the house. Do you think I can keep my house?

I’m thinking, The Child can walk to her friends’ houses. She likes our neighbors and has fun teaching their kids how to ride their bikes. The Dog doesn’t have much time left and he likes sleeping in that familiar yard. Please don’t let someone take these things away from me.

Yes, he says. You have a child in the house. It’s very, very unlikely you will have to move. Anything is possible, I can’t promise, but I think you can plan on staying.

I’m exquisitely happy.

He starts asking me about my car. I had traded in my marital Suburban Assault Vehicle for a zippy little used Mini a few months back, to cut costs. I’m thinking he wants to know something else about the transaction for the papers, but I’m not sure what.

No, no, says the Lawyer. What I’m asking is, do you like it?

Oh. I’m confused. Yes, I like it, I tell him. Easy to park in the city, easy to maneuver in traffic.

I’m thinking of getting one, he tells me. Can you take me for a ride in it?

Oh. Do you want to drive it? I ask.

If you don’t mind, he says. That would be great. He starts asking me questions about engine size, transmission, and so on.

I don’t know, I tell him. Drive it and then you tell me.

There are three cars outside his office: A Honda (his paralegal), a Mini (me), and a Porsche, which I must assume is his, except that I’ve also seen a little electric car that he once mentioned he drove. We get in and drive around the neighborhood.

Lots of power, he says. Sweet.

Doesn’t that Porsche have a lot of power? I ask. Don’t you like it?

I love it, he says. I love cars.

How many cars do you have? I ask.

Five, he tells me. Different cars for different things.

The first thought I have is, you’re welcome – since by now I think I’ve bought and paid for one of those cars. But I don’t mind. I used to mind other people having things that I didn’t, but today I don’t.

The sun is shining, and I can probably keep my house.

With eight days to go to arbitration, the appointment is rescheduled. It’s the third reschedule in the past two weeks.

My father has booked plane tickets – he wants to be here for moral support. Nonrefundable tickets. He’ll change them or give them away, and fly up on the new dates, he says.

No biggie, he says.

My coworkers have juggled their schedules to accommodate me, and juggled them again.

Don’t worry, they say. You’d do it for us if the situation was reversed.

The carpool drivers have arranged their schedules around mine, and now re-arrange their schedules around mine.

Not a problem, they tell me. Schedules and kids are a moving target anyway.

I look at the new date on the calendar and discover it’s a few days after my birthday. It’s not so bad, really – the end is in sight and all the last-minute re-jiggering means I get to have a nice birthday. It will be the first time in many, many years, that I’ve had my father at my birthday celebrations.

Just a little longer.