Chapter 7: The Weekend Conversation
She chose Saturday morning.
She made breakfast — eggs, toast, orange juice — and waited until Kayla had left for a friend's house before sitting down across from me.
"I want to be honest with you," Diane said.
Her hands were folded on the table.
She looked like someone who had rehearsed being sincere.
"Go ahead," I said.
"I know things have been hard.
I know I haven't always been fair to you." She looked down at her hands.
"I said something cruel to you last week, and I've been ashamed of it ever since."
"About not being Kayla's father."
"Yes." She looked up.
"It wasn't true.
You are her father in every way that matters.
I don't know why I said it."
"I do," I said.
She tilted her head slightly.
"What?"
"You said it because you needed me to react.
You needed me to be angry, or controlling, or to refuse to keep paying for things.
You needed a pattern you could describe later."
The color in her face shifted.
Not much.
Just enough.
"Ray, that's—"
"The savings account, Diane."
Her hands unfolded.
One moved toward her coffee mug.
The other flattened against the table.
"The four thousand in January," I said.
"The twenty-two hundred in March.
The thirty-five hundred four weeks ago.
And the six transfers before those.
Nineteen thousand dollars.
You and Renee opened that account fourteen months ago."
She was very still.
"I know about the account," I said.
"I know about the texts.
I know what you told her you were planning."
"You went through my phone," she said.
Her voice had changed entirely.
The warmth was gone.
"I didn't.
Someone else found it.
By accident."
She stared at me.
Then something moved through her expression — a fast recalculation, like numbers being re-entered.
"Kayla," she said.
"You left your phone on her desk."
Diane pushed back from the table.
She stood up.
"She had no right to read my private—"
"She's seventeen years old and she found out her mother spent a year engineering a story to use against the man who raised her." My voice stayed level.
"Talk to me about rights carefully, Diane."
She walked to the window.
Her back was to me.
Her arms crossed over her chest.
"You can't prove any of this," she said.
"I can prove the transfers.
My attorney already has the documentation."
She turned around.
"You have an attorney."
"Since Tuesday."
The calculation behind her eyes was almost visible now.
She had planned for a fight.
She had planned for anger, for accusations, for me refusing to pay and storming out and giving her the reaction she needed.
She had not planned for this.
For quiet.
For documentation.
For an attorney since Tuesday.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"Right now?
Nothing from you.
My attorney will be in contact with yours."
"I don't have an attorney."
"You should get one."
She took a step toward the table.
Her voice dropped.
"Ray.
We don't have to do this.
Whatever you think you've found, we can work through it.
We've built something real here.
We have a daughter—"
"We have your daughter," I said.
"Who you told me isn't mine.
On the same day you left a two-thousand-dollar list on my kitchen table."
"I told you I was wrong about that—"
"You were wrong because Kayla heard you.
Not because you believed it." I stood up.
"I'm going to go for a drive.
When I get back, I'd appreciate some time to think without needing to perform a normal Saturday."
I picked up my keys from the counter.
"Ray." Her voice shifted again — softer, lower, the warmth returning like a light turned back on.
"Please don't do this.
Please."
I stopped at the kitchen doorway.
"Don't do what?" I asked.
"Notice?"
May you like
I left through the front door.
She didn't follow.
