Chapter 8: Coming Home
I went home on the third day, as I'd said I would.
My mom offered to come with me.
I told her I needed to do this part alone.
I drove back in the late morning with the boys in their car seats and the overnight bags in the boot.
The house looked exactly the same from the outside.
I sat in the car for a moment before I went in.
Derek was in the kitchen.
He'd done the washing up.
The counter was clean.
He'd clearly been waiting.
"You're back," he said.
"I said I would be."
He looked at the boys, then at me.
Something moved across his face that I couldn't quite name — relief, maybe, or the beginning of a different strategy.
"We need to talk," he said.
"Yes.
We do."
I settled the boys in their bouncers in the living room and came back to the kitchen.
I sat down at the table.
Derek sat across from me.
"I made a mistake," he said.
"Calling the family support people.
I was — I panicked.
I didn't know what else to do."
"You panicked," I repeated.
"I was scared.
You left, and I didn't know where you were going or what you were planning, and I—"
"Derek." I kept my voice quiet.
"You told people at work that I had postpartum depression.
You told your manager I wasn't coping and that you were holding the family together.
You used that story to get a promotion."
His face changed.
"Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter who told me.
Is it true?"
He was quiet for a moment.
His hands were flat on the table.
"I may have — I was stressed.
I said some things that were—"
"You built a story where I was unstable and you were the capable one.
And then when I left for three days, you called a social worker to make it look like I'd abandoned our children." I looked at him steadily.
"That's not panic.
That's a plan."
"That's not what it was."
"Then what was it?"
He didn't answer.
"I have the messages, Derek.
Every one of them.
The ones where you refused to help me.
The one where you said moms don't get sick days.
The one where you said I do nothing all day.
The one where you said you were going to make some calls." I paused.
"I have a witness.
I have dates and names and direct quotes from your workplace.
I have a lawyer."
The color left his face slowly, like water draining.
"You went to a lawyer."
"You called social services on me."
He stood up.
Walked to the window.
Stood there with his back to me.
"I don't want this to become something ugly," he said.
"It already is something ugly.
You made it that way."
He turned around.
For the first time since I'd known him, he looked genuinely uncertain.
Not angry.
Not dismissive.
Uncertain.
"What do you want?" he said.
"I want you to understand what you've been doing.
Not just the last three days.
The last five months." I kept my hands still on the table.
"I want you to look at what our life actually looks like.
What I actually do.
What you actually don't do."
"I work—"
"I know you work.
I'm not asking you to stop working.
I'm asking you to be a father when you come home." My voice didn't waver.
"I had a broken arm.
I asked you for help.
You told me it wasn't your problem.
And then you called a social worker to suggest I was unfit." I let that sit for a moment.
"So yes.
We need to talk."
Derek sat back down.
He didn't say anything for a long time.
Then, quietly: "I didn't realize how much you were doing."
May you like
"Yes you did," I said.
"You just decided it didn't count."
