Chapter 8: What Derek Didn't Know
Thursday came.
Patricia's office was on the fourth floor of a building downtown, quiet and warm, with two chairs across from her desk and a box of tissues on the side table that had clearly been placed there with purpose.
I sat down and put my folder on my lap — printed screenshots, the timeline Carla had helped me write, the receipt from the coffee shop, the calendar entries.
Patricia looked through everything without rushing.
When she finished, she set the folder down and looked at me.
"He doesn't know you have all of this," she said.
"No."
"Good.
Let's keep it that way for now." She leaned back.
"Tell me about the joint account."
I told her.
She made notes.
We talked for an hour — about assets, about the mortgage, about what the next steps looked like and what my rights were.
She was direct and clear and didn't soften anything, which was exactly what I needed.
At the end, she said: "He's going to come back with a version of events that centers his feelings.
He'll talk about the marriage struggling, about feeling disconnected, about mistakes.
He will not lead with the five months, or the email, or the fact that he was relieved you were sick because it made things easier for him."
"I know," I said.
"When he does that — and he will — you don't argue with his version.
You just show him yours."
I nodded.
"One more thing," Patricia said.
She folded her hands on the desk.
"I've seen a lot of these cases.
The ones that go badly for my clients are the ones where the other person gets to control the narrative first — with family, with mutual friends, with anyone who matters.
Has he spoken to your family?"
"My sister knows everything.
His family — I don't know."
"Find out," she said.
"Before he does."
I called Derek's mother, Ruth, that evening.
We had always gotten along — she was a quiet, practical woman who had never interfered.
I didn't tell her everything.
I told her enough: that Derek and I were going through something serious, that he was staying elsewhere, and that I wanted her to hear it from me.
Ruth was silent for a moment.
Then she said: "Is it a woman?"
I paused.
"Yes."
Another silence.
"I had a feeling," she said quietly.
"These past months.
He's been — off.
I didn't want to say anything." A long breath.
"I'm sorry, love.
I'm truly sorry."
"I just wanted you to know," I said.
"Are the children all right?"
"They're fine.
They're with me."
"Good." Her voice was firm.
"They stay with you.
Whatever happens — they stay with you."
I hadn't expected that either.
I seemed to keep not expecting kindness, and kindness kept arriving anyway.
Derek called that night at nine.
This time I answered.
"I need to see the kids," he said.
"You can see them Sunday.
Two hours.
Here."
"That's not—"
"Derek, I've spoken to a lawyer.
I'm not trying to keep you from them.
But we need to do this properly."
A pause.
"You spoke to a lawyer."
"Yes."
His voice shifted.
The careful, measured tone cracked slightly.
"You're really doing this."
"You did this," I said.
"I'm just responding to it."
"I made a mistake.
One mistake.
You're going to blow up our family over one mistake?"
"Five months isn't a mistake.
A mistake is forgetting to pick up milk."
Silence.
"I ended it," he said.
"Last week.
It's over."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"When last week?"
"Tuesday."
Tuesday.
The day after I'd confronted him with the laptop.
The day after I'd asked him to leave.
"So you ended it," I said slowly, "the day after I found out."
He didn't answer.
"Derek," I said, "that's not remorse.
That's damage control."
The line was quiet for a long time.
Then he said: "What do I have to do?"
And for the first time in this entire ordeal, I heard something real in his voice.
Not strategy.
Not smooth explanation.
Something raw and uncertain and a little frightened.
I didn't answer right away.
"I don't know yet," I said finally.
"I'll let you know after Sunday."
I ended the call.
I sat in the quiet kitchen for a while.
Then I picked up the small red toy car — still on the counter where I'd left it — and turned it over in my hand.
I didn't know yet what came next.
May you like
But I knew what I was worth.
And I knew I wasn't going to let anyone — not even someone I had loved for years — make me forget it again.
