We met at the workroom in mid-December because that was where the papers and the consequences belonged. Hugh brought the household figures. Celia brought the record of outstanding work. I laid out Gordon's renewal, the separate advance acknowledgment, and the existing account reconciliation, without slipping the worst page underneath anything else.
"None of the new advance has been spent," I said.
Hugh checked the balance against the acknowledgment. "Then returning that part is straightforward."
The rest was not. Our old arrangement still carried a remaining refundable balance after earned work and credits were reconciled. I had known it existed, but I had treated it as something future orders would gradually absorb. Refusing renewal meant settling it instead of letting another year hide the obligation inside ordinary business.
Celia ran her finger down the completed-order list. We checked each item against the account. No customer debt could be made smaller by calling it revenue, and no completed work should be omitted just because I felt ashamed. When we finished, there was a clear amount beyond the untouched advance that had to be returned.
Hugh wrote that amount on a fresh sheet. Under it he listed what we could release without failing to pay current wages, rent, or household bills. The gap remained. I said we might take more small work before the decision date. Celia asked which hours I intended to use. We left hoped-for earnings off the page.
"The van," Hugh said.
I looked toward the window, though it faced away from where we had parked. The van had held our first bundles, the machine, shelves, cartons, and all the evidence I had used to call myself independent. Selling it had once sounded like closing the business. Now it appeared as a line in arithmetic.
"It belongs to both of us," I said.
"That's why I'm saying it here." He set down the pencil. "We can ask what it's worth. An offer isn't a sale. Then we decide together."
I turned to Celia. "If I do this, your hours will be smaller."
"I understand that."
"Would you rather I—"
"Don't ask me to choose the exclusion for you." Her voice was not angry, but it stopped me. "I'll tell you what work I can do and what terms I'll accept. I won't give you permission to call this necessary."
We discussed a collection-only service for customers already willing to bring garments to us. Celia could keep limited paid shifts tied to actual orders. I could do estimates and fitting times by appointment. Without the van, the business would lose customers who needed delivery, but it would also lose expenses we had been trying to outrun since the first breakdown.
Hugh asked what the household could draw while the smaller service settled. We made a conservative plan using completed, paid work, not the larger renewal. There would be no money for a holiday purchase I had been considering. There would be rent, food, payments, and an agreed reserve. It was not comfort, but it was a plan with all the people in it.
I obtained an inspection and a written offer for the van. The buyer was interested in its usefulness, not its history with us. I stood beside him while he looked it over and answered what I knew about the repairs. When he asked about the deferred work, I showed him the old estimate rather than saying it had never caused trouble.
The offer covered the settlement gap and left enough to make the transition without using Celia's pay. Hugh read it at the kitchen table. He asked whether I understood that we would be arranging our own lives without the van too. I said yes, and this time I meant more than the delivery route.
I took copies back to the workroom. Celia checked the smaller schedule, then wrote down the shifts she could accept. Nobody celebrated. I telephoned Gordon and requested a final meeting before the decision date. When he asked whether we were ready to sign, I said I was ready to give him an answer, and left it at that.