Chapter 5: When He Thinks He's Winning
I called Eric the next morning.
I made my voice sound tired and a little defeated — not difficult, given everything.
"Eric, I've been thinking.
I shouldn't have come over like that.
It wasn't my place."
A pause.
Then, warmly: "Mom.
Thank you for saying that.
I know you were just worried."
"Is Megan any better?"
"She just needs time.
You know how she gets."
I let that sit for a second.
"I do," I said.
"I'll give you both some space."
"That means a lot." He sounded relaxed.
Relieved.
"And Mom — I know things have been tense.
But once this settles down, we'll have you over for dinner.
Get things back to normal."
"I'd like that," I said.
I hung up and sat at my kitchen table for a long time.
*You know how she gets.*
That was my son.
That was the boy I had raised.
I called Megan.
"He thinks I've backed off," I told her.
"He's comfortable."
"He texted me this morning," she said.
"Said he'd been thinking and he wants to go to couples counseling.
That he knows he hasn't been present enough."
"What did you say?"
"I said I needed a few more days to myself.
He said he understood completely." Her voice was dry.
"He's being perfect."
"He thinks it's working."
"Ruth." She used my name for the first time.
It caught me slightly off guard.
"I went through our bank statements last night.
The ones from the joint account."
I sat up straighter.
"And?"
"There are hotel charges.
Four of them, over the past six months.
All on Thursdays.
All at the same place — a hotel about forty minutes from here." She paused.
"He told me those Thursdays were late client dinners."
"Do you still have the statements?"
"I photographed every page."
I exhaled slowly.
"Megan.
You've been building this case yourself."
"I didn't know what else to do." A short silence.
"I was alone in a hotel room.
I had to do something."
That afternoon, I drove to Eric and Megan's house.
Eric answered the door with a look of careful surprise.
"Mom.
I didn't know you were coming."
"I was in the area.
I brought some things for Chloe." I held up a small bag.
"Is she home?"
He hesitated — just for a fraction of a second — then stepped back.
"Sure.
Come in."
Chloe came downstairs when she heard my voice.
She wrapped her arms around me and held on a beat longer than usual.
"How are you doing, sweetheart?" I asked.
"Okay," she said.
But she looked at her father when she said it.
Eric made tea.
He was easy, warm, attentive — the version of himself he put on for company.
He asked about my garden.
He laughed at something I said.
He was, by every visible measure, a man with nothing to hide.
But when Chloe went to get something from her room, he leaned forward.
"Mom.
Has Megan contacted you?"
I met his eyes.
"No.
Should she have?"
Something moved across his face.
Not quite relief.
More like calculation.
"No.
I just want to make sure she has space.
I don't want her feeling pressured from any direction."
"Of course," I said.
He nodded and sat back.
I drank my tea.
I looked around the kitchen — the family photos on the wall, Chloe's drawings still stuck to the fridge with magnets, the life that this man had been quietly dismantling while everyone around him believed he was holding it together.
When I left, Chloe walked me to the door.
She hugged me again.
Then, very quietly, with her face against my shoulder, she said:
"Grandma.
Dad's been on the phone a lot at night.
After he thinks I'm asleep."
I held her tighter.
"I know, sweetheart."
"Is Mom coming home?"
"Yes," I said.
"She is."
I meant it.
But as I walked to my car, I felt the weight of what still had to happen before that could be true.
My phone buzzed as I started the engine.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
*Are you Ruth?
Eric's mother?
May you like
I think we need to talk.
My name is Dana.*
