Chương 5
Comparison became resentment.
And resentment became entitlement.
"Diane," I said, "does Brent know about the buyer?"
Another pause.
"What buyer?"
I felt a coldness move through me.
Not surprise.
Confirmation.
"Jennifer contacted a buyer."
"Tessa, you can't sell that house."
There it was.
The same assumption.
Not concern.
Not a question.
A command disguised as panic.
"Why?"
"Because it would destroy Brent."
I stared at the phone.
"He changed the locks."
"I know."
"He told people I was unstable."
"I know."
"He let you believe I was doing something irrational."
"I know."
"Then why is the house the thing you are worried about?"
Diane started to answer.
Stopped.
Started again.
"I don't know."
The honesty caught me off guard.
For the first time, she sounded like a person who had reached the edge of her own excuses.
"I need to ask you something," she said.
"What?"
"Did you really love him?"
Molly looked at me.
I looked down at Ivy.
The answer should have been easy.
It wasn't.
"Yes."
Diane was silent.
"I did."
The past tense hurt.
Even saying it.
"I loved him enough that I ignored things I shouldn't have ignored."
"Like what?"
I almost laughed.
Because the list was too long.
"Like how he always said my success was our success until someone else praised me for it."
Diane said nothing.
"Like how he liked telling people he was the reason I could relax, but never noticed how much work I was still carrying."
Still silence.
"Like how every time your family crossed a line, he asked me to be understanding instead of asking them to stop."
Diane swallowed audibly.
"I didn't know."
"I think you did."
"No."
The answer came quickly.
Then softer.
"No, I don't think I did."
That was the first thing she said that sounded like regret.
Not guilt.
Not an apology.
Regret.
And somehow that was harder.
Because regret meant she was beginning to see.
"I have to go," I said.
"Tessa."
"What?"
"Don't sell it yet."
I looked at the phone.
"Why?"
"Because I think there are things you don't know."
My hand tightened around Ivy's blanket.
"What things?"
Diane hesitated.
Then she said:
"Things about Brent."
The line went quiet.
And for the first time since I found myself standing outside my own front door, I wondered if the house was not the only thing he had taken from me.
The line went quiet.
I waited for Diane to continue, but the silence stretched long enough that I could hear the faint sound of traffic outside her side of the call.
"Diane," I said.
"I shouldn't say anything."
That sentence immediately made my shoulders tighten.
Not because I wanted a secret.
Because secrets were the foundation of everything that had happened.
"Then why did you call?"
She exhaled.
"Because I saw what happened to you yesterday."
I looked toward Molly.
"What do you mean?"
"I saw you standing outside."
My fingers stopped moving.
"When?"
"After Brent left."
The room felt smaller.
"You were there?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you come out?"
A long pause.
"I don't know."
The answer hurt more than an excuse would have.
Because it sounded like the truth.
"I was in the car," Diane said.
"Watching me?"
"No."
Her voice became defensive for the first time.
"I wasn't watching you."
"Then what were you doing?"
"I was trying to talk to Brent."
"About what?"
Diane hesitated.
"About the fact that he had gone too far."
Molly folded her arms.
I could tell she wanted to interrupt.
I held up my hand.
"Diane, if you thought he went too far, why didn't you stop him?"
The question stayed unanswered.
Finally, she said, "Because I didn't think he would actually do it."
"Do what?"
"Lock you out."
I stared at the wall.
There was a strange kind of grief in hearing that.
Not because Diane was innocent.
Because even she had underestimated the person she had helped create.
"What else don't I know?" I asked.
She took a breath.
"Brent has been struggling."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Struggling with what?"
"Feeling behind you."
I looked down at Ivy.
The words should have sounded flattering.
They didn't.
"He never said that to me."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because he doesn't like admitting when something hurts him."
I almost smiled.
"Neither do I."
"I know."
That answer surprised me.
"Diane."
"I know more than you think."
I waited.
"When you first started dating him, he was different."
I leaned back.
"Different how?"
"He was proud of you."
The words landed strangely.
Because I remembered that version of him.
Brent at my first company anniversary party, standing beside me while investors and employees congratulated me.
He had looked at me like he could not believe he was lucky enough to be there.
"He told me he had never met someone like you," Diane continued.
I closed my eyes.
Those memories were the dangerous ones.
The ones that made you question whether the bad moments were real.
"He said he wanted to build something with you."
"He did."
"And then?"
I looked toward the baby monitor.
"I don't know."
Diane was quiet.
Then she said, "I think somewhere along the way, building something with you started making him feel like he was disappearing."
I rubbed my thumb against my palm.
"That isn't my fault."
"I didn't say it was."
"No, but people keep acting like I should have noticed sooner."
"You did notice."
The certainty in her voice surprised me.
"You just kept giving him chances."
I did not answer.
Because she was right.
I had.
Not because I was weak.
Because I remembered the beginning.
Because I knew the good parts were real.
Because leaving someone you love is rarely about discovering they were always terrible.
Sometimes it is about realizing love cannot repair what someone refuses to face.
"Diane," I said, "what did you call to tell me?"
She went silent again.
May you like
Then I heard something shift.
Like she was sitting down.
