Chương 7
“Grant was still with me.”
“Yes.”
“Before Lily was born.”
“Yes.”
I pushed the folder away.
“No.”
Daniel watched me carefully.
“I am not saying we know everything.”
“But you think…”
“I think there are questions.”
Questions.
That word was becoming unbearable.
Questions had followed me through every stage of this.
Why did he change?
When did he stop loving me?
Who was she?
What did I miss?
Now there was another one.
What else had happened while I was still trying to save a marriage that was already gone?
For two days, I avoided thinking about it.
I took care of Lily.
I cleaned bottles.
I answered messages.
I pretended that normal routines could create a normal life.
They could not.
One evening, while folding laundry, I found one of Grant’s old shirts in a bag my mother had brought from the apartment.
I held it for a moment.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because I remembered the person who had worn it.
The man who used to cook terrible pasta and laugh when I complained.
The man who once spent an entire weekend assembling furniture because he refused to admit he needed instructions.
The man who had looked at me after our wedding and promised I would never have to wonder if I mattered.
That memory hurt more than anger.
Anger was simple.
Loss was not.
The next morning, I made a decision.
I called Celeste.
She answered after four rings.
“Hello?”
Her voice changed when she realized it was me.
“Why are you calling?”
There was no confidence.
No victory.
Just caution.
“I want to talk.”
A pause.
“I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because everything you say becomes a problem.”
I almost smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was such a Grant sentence.
Everything was always someone else’s problem.
“I’m not calling to fight.”
Another pause.
“Then why?”
I looked at Lily sleeping beside me.
“Because I think we were both lied to.”
The silence lasted longer.
“What does that mean?”
“I think you should ask Grant some questions.”
Her breathing changed.
Small.
Almost invisible.
But I heard it.
“What questions?”
I looked toward the window.
“The kind you should have asked before believing everything he told you.”
She hung up.
I expected that.
But thirty minutes later, she sent a message.
One sentence.
Tell me what you know.
I did not answer immediately.
Because this was the moment where everything could become revenge.
And I did not want revenge.
Not anymore.
I wanted the truth.
I replied with one sentence.
I think Grant has been controlling the story from the beginning.
She did not respond.
Not that day.
Not the next.
Three days later, Grant showed up at my mother’s house.
This time, he was not angry.
That scared me more.
Anger was predictable.
Fear was not.
“You talked to Celeste,” he said.
I stood on the porch.
“She contacted me.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“It is not.”
His face tightened.
“You are destroying everything.”
I almost laughed.
“Everything?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer.
“My family.”
I stared at him.
“Your family?”
He looked away.
For a moment, I saw something.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Panic.
“You don’t understand what is at stake.”
“Then explain.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because explaining required admitting things.
And Grant had spent his entire adult life avoiding that.
“You need to stop,” he finally said.
“Stop what?”
“Digging.”
The word stayed with me.
Not because it frightened me.
Because it confirmed something.
People who had nothing to hide rarely asked others to stop looking.
“You are afraid,” I said.
His expression hardened.
“I am trying to protect people.”
“Who?”
He did not answer.
That was the second time he failed to answer that question.
I stepped back.
“Leave.”
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
My voice surprised both of us.
“No more conversations where you tell me what I should feel.”
He stared at me.
“You changed.”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
The answer came easily.
“I had to.”
He left without another word.
That night, Celeste called.
Not texted.
Called.
I answered.
Her voice sounded different.
Smaller.
“I talked to him.”
I sat down.
“And?”
“He lied.”
I said nothing.
“He looked me in the face and lied.”
Her voice cracked.
“I asked him about the dates.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What did he say?”
“He said the records were wrong.”
“Did you believe him?”
A long pause.
“No.”
For the first time since this began, I heard something unexpected from Celeste.
Not arrogance.
Not confidence.
Fear.
“What did he tell you about me?” she asked.
I swallowed.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
She was quiet.
“He told me you were unstable.”
The words hurt.
Not because they surprised me.
Because they sounded exactly like something Grant would say.
“He told me you were obsessed with controlling him.”
I looked down.
“And you believed him.”
“Yes.”
Her honesty caught me off guard.
“I did.”
No excuses.
No pretending.
Just a confession.
“I thought I was the person who understood him.”
I looked at the floor.
“And now?”
Her voice became quiet.
“Now I think I was just the next person he needed to believe his story.”
I stayed silent for a moment after she said that.
Because there was something strangely painful about hearing the truth from the person who had helped destroy my marriage.
Not because I forgave her.
I did not.
Forgiveness was not something I could hand out simply because someone finally saw what had happened.
But there was a difference between someone who hurt you and someone who had finally realized they had been hurt too.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Celeste laughed quietly.
It was not a happy sound.
“I don’t know.”
That answer surprised me.
May you like
For months, I had imagined her as someone who always knew exactly what she wanted.
The confident woman who walked into my hospital room with her hand resting over her stomach.
