Chương 14
“Yes.”
The firmness of it made my stomach tighten.
“For custody?”
“For custody, temporary arrangements, the house, finances, communication boundaries, and whatever else becomes necessary.”
“That sounds like divorce.”
“It sounds like preparation.”
I looked at Benjamin.
“I haven’t decided.”
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
Evelyn put on her coat.
“Preparing does not force the decision.”
Dad nodded.
“That is also excellent advice.”
She pointed at him.
“Do not turn this into a seminar.”
He raised both hands.
After Evelyn left, the room felt larger.
Dad went to the vending machine and returned with two bags of pretzels, even though neither of us wanted pretzels.
He opened one anyway.
I watched him eat three.
“You’re stress eating.”
“I’m eating because Evelyn ordered me to.”
“She left.”
“Orders persist.”
“You retired.”
“So did the order.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It made sense before midnight.”
I smiled.
Then my phone rang again.
This time it was Marisol.
I answered quietly.
“Everything okay?”
“Mostly.”
That word tightened my chest.
“What happened?”
“Emma can’t sleep.”
“Put her on.”
There was rustling.
Then Emma whispered, “Mom?”
“Hi.”
“Are you awake?”
“Yes.”
“Is Grandpa there?”
“Yes.”
“Is the baby there?”
I looked down.
“He’s here.”
“Okay.”
She was silent.
I waited.
Finally she asked, “Did Dad mean it when he said he was taking us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would he?”
My mouth went dry.
Dad looked at me but said nothing.
“Your dad loves you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
There she was.
Nine years old and mercilessly precise.
“I don’t know what he’ll do.”
Emma sniffed.
“I don’t want to go with him tonight.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Can he make me tomorrow?”
“I’m going to talk to people who know how that works.”
“Lawyers?”
“Yes.”
“Like Evelyn?”
I glanced at Dad.
“Possibly less weird lawyers.”
Dad looked offended.
Emma gave a tiny laugh.
Then she whispered, “Mom, did you know Dad was scared about work?”
The question caught me off guard.
“No.”
“He yelled at somebody on the phone last week.”
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Where were you?”
“In the car.”
“Who was he talking to?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
Dad’s eyes sharpened.
I remembered Evelyn’s warning.
Don’t turn children into witnesses.
“Actually, don’t tell me.”
Emma went quiet.
“Why?”
“Because it’s not your job to remember grown-up problems for me.”
“But I already remember.”
“I know.”
“That’s dumb.”
“It is a little dumb.”
“He said something about files.”
My heart jumped.
“Emma.”
“What?”
“Stop.”
She sounded hurt.
“I was just telling you.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
I softened my voice.
“And you did nothing wrong.”
“Then why don’t you want to know?”
Because I wanted to know too much.
Because I could feel the temptation to ask her exact words, timing, who else had been present, what road they had been on.
Because fear could turn a mother into an interrogator faster than I wanted to admit.
“Because adults are going to handle that part.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “Okay.”
“Try to sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“Want me to stay on the phone?”
“Yes.”
So I did.
For fifteen minutes, neither of us said much.
I heard Marisol’s ceiling fan clicking on her end.
Dad turned off one of the remaining lights.
Benjamin slept.
Emma finally started breathing more slowly.
I thought she had fallen asleep when she whispered, “Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“If you and Dad get divorced, do we have to pick one of you?”
My throat closed.
“No.”
“You promise?”
“I promise nobody is going to make you choose who you love.”
That was as much as I could promise.
She accepted it.
A few minutes later, she stopped answering.
Marisol came back on.
“She’s asleep.”
“Thank you.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“David drove past my house.”
Everything inside me tightened.
“When?”
“About five minutes ago.”
“Did he stop?”
“No.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He drives a silver Audi with one functioning headlight.”
Despite everything, that detail was unmistakable.
“Lock everything.”
“Already did.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“He didn’t stop.”
“I don’t care.”
Dad was already reaching for his phone.
I shook my head.
“I’ll do it.”
He lowered his hand.
I called the non-emergency line first, then was transferred after explaining the domestic incident and that my children were at the address.
I gave them Marisol’s house number.
I gave them David’s plate.
I gave them the case number from earlier.
The dispatcher asked whether David had threatened to harm me or the children.
I said no.
She asked whether he had access to weapons.
“I don’t know.”
That answer scared me more than yes would have.
She told me officers would check the area.
No sirens.
No promises.
Just procedure.
When I hung up, Dad looked at me.
“You handled that correctly.”
I glared at him.
“Do not grade me.”
“Sorry.”
The apology came quickly.
I looked out the window.
The city was darker now.
Traffic had nearly disappeared.
For the first time all night, I wondered where David was.
Not the dramatic version of the question.
Not whether he was destroying evidence or plotting revenge.
Just where he was physically.
Driving alone.
Sitting in a parking lot.
Crying.
Calling somebody.
I hated that part of me still cared.
Dad seemed to see it.
“He’s still your husband.”
“For now.”
“That matters emotionally even if it stops mattering legally.”
I looked at him.
“Was Mom ever afraid of you?”
The question surprised both of us.
Dad’s face changed.
“Yes.”
I had expected denial.
“When?”
“Twice that I know of.”
I swallowed.
“Did you hit her?”
“No.”
He answered immediately.
“But I scared her once by shouting, and once by leaving during an argument and not telling her where I was for two days.”
I stared at him.
“You never told me that.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because children should not have to carry their parents’ worst moments unless there is a reason.”
I looked down at Benjamin.
May you like
“Did she forgive you?”
“Yes.”
