Chapter 3: Get Out of My House
I picked up the notebook.
I didn't open it yet.
I just held it, feeling the weight of four months pressed into those pages — four months I had been at work, at meetings, at dinners, believing my son was safe.
"Victor." Serena's voice had recovered some of its smoothness.
"Let's not do this in front of the help."
"Her name is Lily."
Serena blinked.
"And you're going to stand right there while I read every word of this."
I opened to the first page.
October 14th.
Mr.
Victor left at 8am.
Ethan crying after breakfast.
Mrs.
Serena came in and squeezed his arm until he went quiet.
He wouldn't eat for the rest of the morning.
October 19th.
Mrs.
Serena told me not to pick Ethan up when he cried.
Said I was spoiling him.
When I picked him up anyway, she grabbed my wrist and said she would call immigration if I touched him again without her permission.
I turned the page.
October 28th.
Ethan has a bruise on his left thigh.
Mrs.
Serena said he rolled off the changing table.
I was in the next room.
I didn't hear him fall.
I stopped reading aloud.
The room was very quiet except for Ethan, who had fallen into a shallow, exhausted sleep against my shoulder.
"That bruise," I said.
"I asked you about that bruise."
"Children fall, Victor.
You were worried over nothing."
"I asked you three times."
"And I answered you three times." Her chin lifted.
"A bruise is not a crime."
"No." I closed the notebook.
"But what's on page nine is."
Her eyes went to the notebook again.
Something moved across her face — fast, controlled, gone in under a second.
But I saw it.
"I want you to leave this house," I said.
"Tonight."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
She laughed.
It was a short, disbelieving sound, more reflex than amusement.
"Victor, I am not going anywhere.
This is my home too.
We are married.
Whatever that girl has written in her little book—"
"Her little book," I said, "has dates, times, and descriptions going back four months.
Written the same night each incident happened.
The ink on the earliest entries is faded.
This wasn't written last week to frame you.
This was written by someone who was frightened and had no one to tell."
Serena's jaw tightened.
"You're taking the word of an illegal immigrant over your wife."
"I'm looking at my son's arm."
She opened her mouth.
"Don't," I said.
"Whatever you're about to say — don't."
Lily had moved to the corner of the room.
She was holding herself very still, watching Serena the way someone watches a dog they're not sure is tied down.
Serena turned toward her.
"You think this helps you?" she said, her voice dropping low.
"You think he can protect you?
The moment this becomes a legal matter, your name goes into a file.
You understand what that means."
"That's enough." I stepped between them.
Serena looked at me over my shoulder.
"I'm simply explaining the reality of her situation."
"Her situation," I said, "is that she documented everything.
Your situation is that I have a fourteen-month-old with an arm that needs to be x-rayed tonight, and a notebook that I am going to hand to my attorney in the morning."
The word attorney landed.
Her posture didn't collapse — Serena never collapsed — but something behind her eyes recalculated.
"You're not serious."
"I've never been more serious in my life.
Pack what you need for tonight.
Everything else can be arranged through lawyers."
She stared at me for a long moment.
Then she picked up her evening bag from the chair where she'd set it, smoothed the front of her gown, and walked toward the hallway.
At the doorway she stopped.
"You'll regret this," she said.
Not loudly.
Almost gently.
"Maybe," I said.
"But Ethan won't."
She left.
I stood in the middle of the room, my son asleep on my shoulder, the notebook in my hand.
Lily was still in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
She nodded.
Then shook her head.
"I didn't know if you'd believe me," she said.
"I believed you the moment I walked through the door."
She pressed her hand over her mouth.
I looked down at the notebook again, then at Ethan's arm resting at that wrong angle against my chest.
"We're going to the hospital," I said.
May you like
"And then I'm calling my attorney."
What I didn't know yet was that Serena had made a phone call of her own — before she'd even reached the end of the driveway.
