Page 55 of His Daughter

My hand stopped on the trackpad.

I read the first three lines. That was enough. A response from a hiring manager. Congratulations on moving forward. A date and time for the second round. A note about the salary range, which was more than double what the nonprofit paid Margot on the months we could pay her at all.

I closed the laptop, set my hands flat on the desk, and sat there.

Margot was interviewing. My Margot. The thought that she could leave never crossed my mind. She was the nonprofit. She was half of it, maybe more than half.

I picked up the laptop and walked out to the main room, where Margot was now sitting at the intake desk, writing something. I set the laptop in front of her.

"When were you going to tell me?"

She looked at the laptop. Her pen stopped. She closed her eyes. One breath. Two. "I was going to tell you this week."

"This week."

"I've been looking for the right time. There isn't one." She pushed her chair back and folded her hands in her lap. "Thea, sit down."

I sat across from her.

"I have two kids," she said. "I have a mortgage. The nonprofit hasn't paid me a full salary in three months. I've been covering the difference from savings, and the savings are almost gone."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you would have given me your own money, and then you'd have nothing, and we'd both be drowning instead of just me. I love this work," Margot continued. "I love this work, and I love you, and I love what we built, but I can't run on passion forever, Thea. I have people who depend on me."

I looked at the desk. I couldn’t speak.

"I haven't accepted anything." Margot reached across the desk. Her hand covered mine. "I'm just looking. I owe it to my kids to look."

I squeezed her hand. "I understand."

She searched my face, looking for the lie. I didn't have one. I understood. Understanding and accepting were different things, but I understood.

Margot nodded. She picked up her pen. I picked up the Whitfield file from her desk. We went back to work, and neither of us said another word about it. The silence was the heaviest thing in the room.

I was still at my desk an hour later, still raw, still sitting with the Whitfield file I wasn't reading, when my phone rang.

Mom.

I could keep dodging. I'd been dodging for weeks. But the dodging took energy I didn't have today. The silence at the nonprofit was pressing in, and Margot's email was sitting in my head like a stone in a shoe.

I picked it up.

"Baby! Finally! I was starting to think you'd changed your number."

"I've been busy, Mom."

"I know, I know, you're always busy. But listen…baby, you will not believe what Ray did last weekend. He surprised me with tickets to that jazz thing at Lincoln Center — you know the one, the one I was telling you about? And he wore this new suit, navy, and honestly, Thea, he looked so good I almost couldn't —"

"Mom, I'm at work."

"Oh, I know, honey. I'll be quick." She wasn't going to be quick. "The reason I've been calling is — Ray has a work thing in the city, and I came along! We're in town! We should get together. Dinner, maybe? Tonight?"

I rubbed my temple. "I'm really busy this week."

"Oh, come on. I haven't seen you in months." Then she let out a low gasp. "Oh, how silly of me. I know this must be so hard for you, with the divorce and everything. Are you managing? Being alone can be — "

"I'm not alone." The words came out before the thought finished forming. "Actually, I'm seeing someone. You might have heard of him. He's quite popular."