Chapter 7: The First Move
Carla stayed until midnight.
By the time she left, I had a list.
Not an emotional list — a practical one.
A lawyer's name at the top, written in Carla's handwriting because my hands had started shaking somewhere around the third item.
A note about the joint account and what to do before Monday.
A reminder to photograph every document in the house that had both our names on it.
I didn't sleep much.
But I slept some.
In the morning, the children woke early and came padding into my room.
The youngest climbed up and sat on my chest.
The older one stood at the bedside and said, very seriously, "Where is Daddy?"
"Daddy is staying somewhere else for a little while," I said.
He considered this.
"Is he at work?"
"Something like that."
He accepted that and asked for cereal.
Children are extraordinary that way.
I made breakfast.
I got them dressed.
I called the lawyer — her name was Patricia — and left a message.
She called back within the hour.
"I can see you Thursday," she said.
"But I want you to do a few things before then."
She walked me through it.
Secure the financial accounts.
Make copies of everything.
Write down a timeline — dates, incidents, specific words said.
Don't delete anything.
Don't confront him again until after we'd spoken.
"He'll want to talk," she said.
"He'll want to negotiate.
Don't."
"He already texted this morning," I said.
"What did he say?"
I read it aloud: *I think we should talk today.
I can come by after work.
I want to explain properly.*
"Don't respond yet," Patricia said.
"Let him wait.
Waiting makes people reveal things."
I put the phone down and looked at the text again.
Then I put the phone face-down on the counter and went to play with my children.
Derek texted twice more before noon.
The second message was softer — *I miss the kids.
Can I at least see them?* The third was different in tone: *I need you to understand this wasn't about you.
You need to hear my side.*
I read that one three times.
*It wasn't about you.*
I thought about the two sleepless nights.
The mask.
The pharmacy.
*You don't do anything anyway.* The email: *She's been sick.
It's actually easier right now.*
I took a screenshot of all three messages and emailed them to myself.
Linda came by in the afternoon.
She knocked quietly and held up a container of food.
"I made too much stew," she said.
"Thought you might want some."
I let her in.
She set the container on the counter and looked at me with the particular expression of a woman who has seen a great deal of life and doesn't require an explanation.
"He's gone?" she said.
"For now."
She nodded.
"Good."
"You heard everything.
The other day."
"Most of it." She folded her hands.
"I've been watching that man for a while.
The way he left in the mornings.
The way he came home.
I didn't say anything because it wasn't my place."
"And now?"
"Now I'm saying: you're doing the right thing.
And if you ever need someone to sit with the children so you can make a phone call or go to an appointment — I'm next door."
My throat tightened.
I hadn't expected that.
"Thank you, Linda."
She patted my hand once and let herself out.
That evening, Derek called.
I let it ring.
He left a voicemail.
I sat with my finger over the play button for a full minute.
Then I pressed it.
His voice was careful.
Measured.
The voice he used in difficult meetings.
"I've been thinking," he said, "and I want you to consider something before you do anything permanent.
I know what you found.
I know how it looks.
But I also know what we've built together, and I think you owe it to the kids — and to yourself — to hear me out before you make any decisions.
I'm not the villain here.
I made a mistake.
People make mistakes.
Call me back."
*I'm not the villain here.*
I saved the voicemail.
Then I forwarded it to Patricia.
She replied twenty minutes later: *Perfect.
See you Thursday.
Don't call him back.*
I put the phone down.
The youngest was asleep.
The older one was in the living room, lining up his toy cars in a row with tremendous concentration.
I sat on the floor beside him and watched.
After a while he looked up at me.
"Mama, are you sad?"
"A little bit," I said.
"But I'm okay."
He picked up one of his cars and placed it carefully in my hand.
A small red one.
His favorite.
"You can hold this," he said.
"It helps."
I closed my fingers around it.
May you like
"Thank you," I said.
"It really does."
