Chương 8
“She sounds very clearheaded.”
“She is.”
“And you?”
“I’m terrified.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“I have a fourteen-year-old son who barely speaks to me because of what I did to his mother.”
I sat down again.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
The echo of my own words made both of us quiet.
“I keep thinking if this baby is mine, I could do better.”
He exhaled.
“Then I hear myself thinking that, and it sounds disgusting.”
“Why?”
“Because my son is already here.”
That sentence followed me after the call ended.
My son is already here.
I thought of Abigail asking why Victor had punished them.
I thought of Charlotte offering her sister a plastic horse because grief, at five years old, was still something you could try to solve with your favorite object.
Victor had spent months imagining fatherhood as something waiting for him in the future.
Our daughters had been standing in front of him the entire time.
At 12:43, he sent me a photograph.
Charlotte was eating an ice cream cone almost as large as her head.
Abigail sat beside her on a park bench, unsmiling but present.
Victor’s message underneath said, We’re okay.
I typed, Good.
Then another message came.
Can I bring them back later than seven?
No.
Penelope, please.
They have a flight tomorrow.
I know.
They need sleep.
I know.
Then seven.
The typing indicator appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Finally, he wrote, Fine.
I set the phone down.
At three, Samantha called.
I answered because not answering had started to require more energy than answering.
“Have you spoken to Victor?”
she asked.
“Only about the girls.”
“Has he said anything about Naomi?”
“No.”
Samantha exhaled.
“She’s telling Mom the doctor overreacted.”
“That doesn’t sound like something a doctor would do.”
“I know.”
“Does Victor believe her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You seem to be saying that a lot today.”
“I don’t know anything today.”
There was anger in her voice now, but not at me.
I heard a cupboard close in the background.
“Dad is furious.”
“At Naomi?”
“At everybody.”
“That sounds more familiar.”
She gave a short laugh despite herself.
Then she went quiet.
“Penelope, I owe you something.”
I did not like the direction of her voice.
“What?”
“The truth.”
My stomach tightened.
“Samantha.”
“The first time Naomi came to Sunday dinner, I knew.”
I sat very still.
“Knew what?”
“That she and Victor were involved.”
The apartment seemed to lose sound.
“When was that?”
“January.”
January.
Three months before Victor admitted the affair.
Two months before I filed for divorce.
A week after he had taken me to dinner for our anniversary and complained that I had become suspicious and difficult.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you sat across from me.”
“Yes.”
“You watched her sit at my table.”
“It was Mom’s table.”
The correction came automatically.
Then Samantha inhaled sharply.
“God, listen to me.”
I said nothing.
“She told me Victor was going to tell you.”
“And you believed her?”
“I wanted to.”
“No.”
My voice came out flat.
“You wanted not to be involved.”
Samantha did not defend herself.
That made it worse.
“You watched my daughters eat dinner with her.”
“I know.”
“You let Abigail ask Naomi about her job.”
“I know.”
“You helped Charlotte show her the gap where she lost her tooth.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I’m sorry.”
My hand trembled.
I pressed it against my knee.
“Why tell me now?”
“Because yesterday I kept looking at Naomi in that clinic, and all I could think was that I had helped make this possible.”
“You didn’t make Victor cheat.”
“No.”
“But I helped him hide it.”
That was true.
The truth sat between us without needing decoration.
“I’m not telling you because I expect forgiveness.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling you because if Victor tries to make this move harder for you, I will testify to what I saw.”
I stood.
“What did you see?”
“Enough.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I saw them kiss in the parking garage at the office Christmas party.”
My heart started pounding.
“That was December.”
“Yes.”
Before January.
Before the dinner.
Before nearly every lie Victor had asked me to swallow.
“Was anyone else there?”
“One of the property managers.”
“Who?”
“Elliot Barnes.”
“Would he admit it?”
“I don’t know.”
There was the phrase again.
But this time it sounded less like weakness and more like reality.
“Why does any of this matter to the relocation?”
“If Victor tries to argue that you’re acting impulsively or alienating the girls, it matters that the move was planned while he was already disengaging from the family.”
I stared at the packed suitcases.
“Have you spoken to an attorney?”
“No.”
“Then don’t give me legal theories.”
“You’re right.”
I heard her swallow.
“But I’ll still tell the truth.”
I wanted to say thank you.
I could not.
Not yet.
At 6:52, headlights swept across the living-room wall.
I went to the window.
Victor’s car pulled up below.
He got out first.
Then Abigail.
Then Charlotte, carrying the stuffed horse by one leg.
Victor looked up toward my window.
Even from four floors above, I could tell something had changed.
He was holding an envelope.
And when the girls came through the apartment door eight minutes later, Victor did not step inside.
He handed me the envelope instead.
“My attorney emailed me this an hour ago.”
I did not take it immediately.
“What is it?”
“A petition.”
“For what?”
“To delay the relocation.”
My stomach dropped.
Behind me, Abigail went completely silent.
Victor looked past me at her.
Then back at me.
“I haven’t filed it.”
I took the envelope.
“Why bring it here?”
“Because I need you to understand that I could try.”
I stared at him.
The old Victor would have enjoyed that sentence.
This Victor looked sick after saying it.
“And are you threatening me?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
May you like
He looked at Abigail again.
“I’m trying to decide whether stopping you would be for them or for me.”
