Page 15
“Your two o’clock is here,” she says, and Clara nods.
“I’ll be right there.” She turns back to me. “Think about what we’ve discussed. The initial consultation fee covers a follow-up call if you have questions before making a decision. But there’s no pressure. This is an important choice.”
It is. But as I walk back through the waiting room past the spider plant, I realize I’ve already made it. Clara Hayes: not too soft, not too sharp. Just right. Turns out Goldilocks was actually looking for a divorce lawyer the whole time.
In the car, I sit with the engine off, watching the afternoon light move across the dashboard. My phone sits in my hand, the screen dark and peaceful, and after a moment I open my messages and type a single line to Luca: I found my lawyer.
His first voice message arrives in under thirty seconds, loud enough that I have to turn my phone volume down: “OH MY GOD ELS THAT’S AMAZING TELL ME EVERYTHING IS SHE FABULOUS DOES SHE HAVE A SWORD I BET SHE HAS A SWORD… “
The second is even louder: “…DID SHE SEE THE EVIDENCE DID YOU SHOW HER THE NICU STUFF WHAT DID SHE SAY ABOUT CUSTODY I NEED DETAILS ELS ACTUAL DETAILS… “
The third is mostly just him saying my name in increasingly theatrical tones of vindicated triumph: “ELSIE. ELSIE QUINN. QUINN. ELS. MRS. QUINN. THE WOMAN WHO IS GOING TO DESTROY HER CHEATING HUSBAND IN DIVORCE COURT.”
I sit in the driver’s seat with my forehead tipped back against the headrest, laughing at the sheer absurdity. The sound bounces off the windows, too loud in the small space, but I don’t care. For a moment, just a moment, everything feels possible again.
I have a lawyer. I have evidence. I have friends who will show up with wine and threats and absolutely zero judgment when I finally break down and admit that I’m not okay.
It’s not much. But it’s a start.
Six
It’s a Wednesday evening. I’m explaining the merits of hypoallergenic formula to Daniel while a browser tab, “Understanding Matrimonial Home Rights,” sits minimized on my phone. My voice is perfectly pitched, the calm, efficient tone of a wife handling logistics, a tone I’ve been perfecting for the two weeks since I discovered my husband has been cheating on me.
“The paediatrician thinks Milo’s eczema might be food-related,” I say, reaching for the formula canister on the counter. “She suggested we try a hydrolysed protein option for a few weeks, see if it makes a difference.”
Daniel nods, his attention split between me and the sports recap playing on the small kitchen TV. “Makes sense,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. “Whatever you think is best.”
It’s our standard exchange, me proposing a solution, him agreeing with the particular enthusiasm of someone who wants credit for support without actually having to do any of the thinking. Two weeks ago, I would have found it endearing. Now I clock it as the conversational equivalent of autopilot.
“I’ll pick some up tomorrow,” I say, turning back to the dishes. “It’s a bit pricier, but… “
“Money’s not an issue,” he interrupts, his eyes still on the TV. “Whatever the twins need.”
I nearly laugh. Money’s not an issue, except when it’s the mortgage payment, or the car insurance, or the new shoes I mentioned needing last month. But formula for his son’s eczema? No problem. Open wallet.
“Thanks,” I say, the word perfectly calm. Not so warm he’d think I was pleased, not so cool he’d notice something was off. Just the tone of a wife accepting her husband’s reasonable support.
The house has changed around me. The framed pregnancy photo on the hallway shelf, taken at thirty-two weeks, me swollen and exhausted but still believing we were okay, now looks like a prop. Daniel’s coffee mug on the draining rack. His shoes by the front door. The half-finished crossword on the coffee table. All of it feels arranged, like a set assembled to look like a marriage rather than an actual place where people live.
Daniel has noticed something is different, not the truth, obviously, but the slight change in me. He’s compensating, though he doesn’t understand what he’s compensating for. His phone is angled slightly away from me still. His “love you“ is delivered in the same tone as “we’re out of dishwasher tablets.” He’s attentive in a way that seems less like affection and more like a man instinctively patching a leak he can’t find.
Yesterday, he brought home flowers, daffodils, my favourite, arranged in a blue vase that matched our kitchen. “Just because,” he said, setting them on the counter with a smile that was over almost before it started, like he’d remembered to put it on too late. I thanked him, arranged them with appropriate appreciation, and then, when he was in the shower, stood in the kitchen and stared at them until my eyes burned. Not because they were beautiful, which they were, or because the gesture was thoughtful, which it was. But because they were a lie, not the flowers themselves, which were real, but what they represented. A relationship that no longer exists. A husband who has never been who I thought he was.
What’s keeping me upright are the routines, the careful architecture of a life that continues despite everything. And Luca, who has helped me secure Clara Hayes, and who is currently the only person in my life who knows the full scope of what I am carrying. Who texts at 7:00 AM with increasingly absurd voice notes… “ELS. ELS. I NEED YOU TO KNOW I HAVE RESERVED MY ENTIRE MORNING FOR VENGEFUL PLANNING.”
Luca, who is, at this exact moment, sending another voice note that arrives like a flare gun fired into a very quiet room:
“You’ve reached the concerning level of quiet where I start assuming you’ve either joined a cult or buried Daniel under the patio. The girls are coming over tonight. You no longer have veto power. I’ve already bought snacks. This is not a negotiation.”
I stare at the message, watching the little dots appear as he types another:
“Also, I bought those cheese puffs you like that are shaped like dinosaurs. But I’m not telling you which bag they’re in. You have to find them.”
And then:
“I love you. Even when you’re quiet and weird and probably plotting to move to Canada without telling me. Which you’re absolutely not allowed to do. I’d find you.”
I look up from my phone to find Daniel watching me, his expression carefully neutral. “Everything okay?” he asks.
