“They went shopping?” Tess says to Martin. She’s on the couch with her laptop, wrapped up in her favorite cardigan, her hair pulled up. She’s relieved by the feel of the computer, fingers fast and firm on the keyboard, the force and clarity with which she is able to draft eleven emails, check in with a colleague, edit and prepare to file three motions, sign off on four more.

“They went to the outlets. Josh seemed to think there’d be good sales.”

“You know that shit they make for the outlets is lower quality.”

“Who cares?”

“I’m just talking, Martin. It doesn’t matter,” she says. What she doesn’t say is: I have to care because you’ve let me do all the worrying and the bitching—most of the money-making—for all of us. “I’ll just finish off some work here, you can roll Kate’s pie dough, we can both enjoy the quiet.”

“That doesn’t sound so terrible,” he says. He sits down next to her, and she tries to enjoy being close to him, the look and smell and feel of him, to remember that she likes being married to him. She tries to remember the last time they had sex, thinks maybe she should touch him, put down her computer, put her hand on his shoulder, flip her legs over his, hold his face, reach her hand down his pants.

“You don’t seriously think we should just give them the house?” she says instead.

Martin moves closer to the window, farther from her. “I don’t know, Tess. Can we not talk about it now?”

“We have to talk about it, Martin. It’s two hundred thousand dollars.”

“It’s not just money.”

“Perfect,” she says. “So I’m the only cold, unfeeling one.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Your sister’s playing you. Remember those stories you used to tell me? About when you were kids? Your mom would leave you alone, and you’d all scrap, hit one another, play-fight, and she’d be fine—and then three hours later, your mom would come home, and she’d lie on the floor and wail that you had hurt her. That’s what she’s doing now, except in grown-up form.”

“She was six.”

“People don’t change that much.”

“Maybe there’s a middle ground. She’s my sister, Tess. I don’t want to fight with her.”

“Of course not,” she says. And then, knowing she’s not being fair but saying it regardless, knowing that what makes her good at what she does—litigation—is her willingness, often, to push past what’s fair or even precisely true, she says: “Anything but fight for us instead.”