Chương 7
I stared at her.
“They know my name?”
“They know their father’s name is Ethan.”
My throat tightened.
“Then Lucas might have heard you call me that.”
“Yes.”
I looked back toward the vending machines.
“Is that why he was staring?”
“Maybe.”
She walked two steps away.
Then she stopped.
“There’s something else.”
I waited.
“The email Chloe sent me five years ago.”
“What about it?”
“I checked the original message again after I met Martin.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t forwarded from you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It was created to look like a forwarded message.”
A pulse started in my temple.
“How can you tell?”
“The formatting.”
She gave a tired shrug.
“I was an accountant, remember?”
“Can you prove that?”
“I think so.”
“And you kept it?”
“I kept everything.”
She glanced toward our sons.
“I stopped trusting people who told me to throw things away.”
Then she returned to work.
I stood there alone for nearly a minute before walking back toward baggage claim.
Carla and the boys were gone.
The burst carton of chocolate milk had been wiped from the floor.
There was no sign anything extraordinary had happened there.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
Chloe’s name filled the screen.
I let it ring until it stopped.
A second later, a message appeared.
Please come home before you do something you can’t undo.
I stared at those words.
Then another message arrived.
Your mother is ready to tell you everything.
I called Chloe.
She answered immediately.
“Ethan?”
“Don’t leave the house.”
Silence.
Then she whispered, “Why?”
“Because Samantha kept the emails.”
For the first time since I had known her, Chloe had no answer at all.
“Ethan, listen to me.”
“I’ve been listening for five years.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Nothing about this is fair.”
I ended the call.
By the time I reached Evanston, my anger had settled into something colder.
The front door was unlocked.
My mother was sitting at the kitchen table with Patricia beside her and Chloe across from them.
Three untouched mugs of coffee had gone dark between them.
Nobody stood when I entered.
I tossed my keys onto the counter.
“Start talking.”
My mother folded and unfolded a paper napkin.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ethan.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Patricia looked at me carefully.
“You’re not.”
“No, but standing is currently keeping me from throwing furniture.”
Chloe flinched.
I noticed and hated that part of me was glad.
My mother pushed one mug toward the empty chair.
I ignored it.
“You signed for Samantha’s letter three days before the twins were born.”
Her fingers stopped moving.
“How do you know that?”
“That’s your first concern?”
“I asked you a question.”
“So did I.”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
“You signed for it.”
“Yes.”
“You opened it?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
Her voice dropped.
“That she was being induced.”
“And?”
“That there were two babies.”
“And?”
“She included the hospital.”
The kitchen went silent.
I stared at my mother.
“She told you where she was giving birth.”
“Yes.”
“She gave you the date.”
“Yes.”
“She asked you to tell me.”
My mother’s mouth trembled.
“Yes.”
I turned away because if I kept looking at her, I was not sure what I would do.
On the refrigerator was a photograph from my college graduation.
My mother had one hand on my shoulder and looked impossibly young.
I reached out and turned the frame facedown.
Patricia whispered, “Ethan.”
I ignored her.
“Did you call me?”
My mother began crying.
I waited.
“Did you call me?”
“No.”
“Did you email me?”
“No.”
“Text me?”
“No.”
“Tell Martin?”
“No.”
“Tell anyone who could have reached me?”
“No.”
I laughed softly.
“Efficient.”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“No.”
I faced her.
“You were protecting a decision you made.”
Her face tightened.
“You don’t understand what you were like then.”
“I don’t care.”
“You were falling apart.”
“I was getting divorced.”
“You were drinking every night.”
“For three weeks.”
“You missed work.”
“Two days.”
“You punched a hole in your bedroom wall.”
I looked toward the hallway.
The patch was still faintly visible beneath newer paint.
“I also fixed it.”
“Your father had been gone less than a year.”
That stopped me.
Patricia looked down.
My father had died of pancreatic cancer eleven months before Samantha and I separated.
The grief had turned everything in our marriage louder.
Arguments about money became arguments about loyalty.
Arguments about dishes became proof that neither of us felt seen.
We had been cruel in the ordinary, intimate way people become cruel when they know exactly where another person is soft.
My mother wiped her cheek.
“I thought another crisis would destroy you.”
“So you stole it from me.”
“I made a mistake.”
“A mistake is forgetting to mail something.”
Her eyes closed.
“You made a choice every day after that.”
No one argued.
I pointed at Chloe.
“When did she enter this?”
Chloe shook her head.
“Your mother needs to finish.”
“I’m asking you.”
My mother spoke before Chloe could.
“I contacted Martin after I got Samantha’s first letter.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to know if you were settling in.”
“And somehow Chloe became involved.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Martin was busy.”
Patricia made a disgusted sound.
My mother snapped, “What?”
“You’re making it sound like she answered a switchboard.”
My mother glared at her.
I looked at Chloe.
“Tell me.”
She pressed her palms flat against her thighs.
“Martin asked me to coordinate some of your relocation details.”
“I know that part.”
“Your mother called the office more than once.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You remember.”
“Maybe four.”
“Before we ever met.”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
Chloe swallowed.
“That your divorce had been ugly.”
“Anything else?”
“That Samantha was trying to pull you back into it.”
“By being pregnant?”
Chloe looked toward my mother.
I snapped my fingers once.
“Me.”
She looked back at me.
“Yes.”
May you like
“What did you think?”
“That your mother was controlling.”
