Page 4 of Jury Woman, Part 3 of 6

"Sure you didn't." He reached for something off-screen, a jacket, his keys. "I gotta go. Heidi's waiting."

"Warren, wait—"

The call ended—the equivalent of him walking out the door the day he announced he wanted a divorce. In my mind I could still hear the bang of the door, like an exclamation point.

My time wasn't up so I sat there a while, trying to pinpoint the month or year when Warren had stopped being the father who built blanket forts with Josh on the living room floor, who carried Lily around on his shoulders until her legs were too long for it. Somewhere between then and now he'd become a man who measured his children's needs against dinner reservations.

But sitting there in the quiet of the stuffy conference room, his last words still hung in the air, the accusation that I'd also chosen something over my children.

And hadn't I?

Maybe it wasn't as simple as him being the failure and me being the sacrifice.

September 6, Sunday

LILY AND Josh appeared on the screen just long enough to prove they still existed.

"Hey Mom," Lily said, already glancing at something off-camera. "Can't really talk, Scott's picking me up."

"I have to walk Tucker," Josh said, which struck me as suspiciously proactive for a boy who usually needed three reminders and a bribe to leash the dog.

"Five minutes," I tried. "That's all I'm asking."

But they were already gone and Elaine's face filled the screen. "They used to be so wonderful when they were little."

I laughed. "Do I even want an update?"

"I stopped by yesterday to check in. There was a load of towels sitting wet in the washer, clearly forgotten, going sour. Lily didn't know you're supposed to switch them to the dryer within a certain amount of time. Actually didn't know." She shook her head slowly. "I love those kids, Isabel, but I'm a little stunned at what they don't know how to do."

"They're teenagers. They're not supposed to know everything."

"They're supposed to know basics." Elaine crossed her arms. "You had me doing my own laundry by twelve. Cooking dinner for all of us by thirteen."

"We had to grow up fast," I said. "Mom was sick more often than she wasn't. I needed your help to keep the house running."

"I know." Something softened in her face. "And honestly? I'm grateful for it now. It made me capable. I've never once been scared of being on my own." She paused. "It wouldn't kill Lily and Josh to learn some of that too."

"I agree. And I've tried to teach them to do their own laundry, cook simple things, keep their rooms picked up. But when they pushed back, I'd tell myself they have more activities and more homework than we did, and I cave. It's easier than the fight."

"I get that."

"And I wanted them to have an easier childhood than we did. One where they got to just be kids for a while, instead of running a household."

"Well." Elaine's mouth curved, not unkindly. "Mission accomplished. But they're going to be adults in a couple years, and it would be helpful if they know how to do a few things for themselves."

Something in her tone—reasonable, patient, absolutely correct—needled at me anyway. "It's easy for you to say. You don't have kids. You don't know what it's like to watch them struggle and want to make it easier for them."

The words were out before I'd fully weighed them.

"You're right," Elaine said, quiet now, all the warmth gone out of her voice. "I don't know what that's like."

"Elaine, I didn't mean—"

"Time's about up anyway," she said, glancing at something off-screen. "I should let you go."

"Elaine—"

But the call had already ended. I sat there replaying the exchange, wishing I could reach through the screen and pull back the words. She'd given up her own weekend, driven across town for wet towels and a washing machine tutorial, and I'd repaid her by implying her childlessness disqualified her opinion.