Chapter 1 - The Seat Beside Me
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, waiting for me to change my mind. I had taken off my wedding ring in the lobby of my husband's Manhattan penthouse, but the pale circle around my finger seemed to be giving him conflicting instructions. "The airport," I repeated. "Please." He nodded and pulled away from the curb. My phone began vibrating before we reached the first traffic light.
Vincent's name filled the screen. For four years I had answered that name while eating dinner alone, while falling asleep alone, and once while lying in an intensive care unit after a car accident, trying not to sound frightened enough to make him feel guilty. That March, he had told me he couldn't travel because of a security emergency. Today I'd seen a photograph of him smiling at a school ceremony dated March seventh. I turned the phone facedown.
"Mrs. Moretti?" the driver asked carefully. "Mr. Moretti wanted me to take you wherever you needed. If you prefer the private terminal—" "The commercial terminal is fine." He knew better than to argue, although he looked uncomfortable. In Vincent's world, instructions usually traveled in one direction. I had learned to make small requests sound like suggestions and to thank people for things that should never have required permission. I was finished with that.
At the airport, I bought a ticket using my own card. My hands shook while I entered the passenger information, and I had to start over when I typed my married name into the wrong field. A message appeared from Vincent: Emma's hand is okay. Please answer. I stared at those words. I was relieved a child wasn't seriously hurt. I was also furious that he thought her condition was the first thing I needed to hear.
He called again while I waited at security. This time I answered, not because I wanted an explanation but because I wanted him to stop summoning me through every person who worked for him. "Claire. Where are you?" His voice had the clipped urgency he used when someone had disobeyed an order. "I'm going home." "Then wait. I'll come with you." "You already chose where you needed to be." "She's six years old." "And I'm eight weeks pregnant. Neither fact excuses four years of lies."
He exhaled as though I had been deliberately unreasonable. "I didn't know about the baby until today." "You knew I was your wife on March seventh." There was silence. Around me, travelers shuffled forward with boarding passes and rolling suitcases. "I can explain that picture," he said finally. "Then explain it to someone who believes you," I replied, and ended the call. For the first time, hanging up did not feel like losing an argument. It felt like concluding one.
On the flight to Chicago I sat beside a woman working a crossword puzzle. She offered me a peppermint when the cabin grew turbulent, and I nearly cried over the kindness of a stranger who asked nothing in return. My nausea had been mild until now. I pressed a napkin to my mouth, watched the clouds through the small window, and reminded myself that the pregnancy was real even if the future I'd imagined for it was gone.
I had spent the flight to New York rehearsing Vincent's reaction. I'd carried divorce papers too, prepared after months of doubts, because some part of me feared another excuse. He might have lifted me, laughed in surprise, asked whether the baby was healthy, promised to come home.
Instead, he had looked at the ultrasound, then hurried back upstairs to the child who already knew him as Daddy. I didn't resent Emma for loving him. I resented the work he'd put into teaching her she could rely on him while he taught me the opposite.
My friend Nora Briggs was waiting outside baggage claim in Chicago. I'd sent her a text before boarding: Can you collect me? Please don't ask questions until we're in the car. She took one look at my face, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and walked me toward the parking garage without speaking. Once we were inside, she handed me a bottle of water and said, "You can tell me exactly as much as you want."
Nora and I had known each other since college. She was one of the few people who understood that being married to Vincent Moretti did not make ordinary loneliness less ordinary. I told her about the little girl, the pajamas, the school photograph, and his last-minute promise to come home. When I got to the elevator, my voice began to crack. "He didn't even turn around," I said. "Not once." Nora pulled into a quiet parking space and let me cry.
When she finally spoke, her voice was practical. "Do you want to stay with me tonight?" "I have a house." "A house with staff reporting to Vincent." She was right, and I hated how quickly she saw it.
I had called the Chicago residence mine because my books were there and because I had watched seasons change through its windows. But even the gate code could be changed with a call from New York. I asked Nora whether her spare room was still full of unpacked boxes.
"Mostly," she said. "The boxes can sleep on the couch." We stopped for crackers and ginger tea on the way to her apartment. The girl behind the checkout counter asked whether I needed a bag, and I said yes without thinking about whether Vincent disliked plastic bags in his cars. The freedom was absurdly small. I carried my own groceries upstairs, put my shoes beside Nora's door, and sat on a bed that had not been selected by a designer my husband employed.
There were decisions I couldn't postpone. I called a lawyer named Elena Park, whom Nora had used for a property dispute, and left a message explaining I needed independent family-law advice. Then I contacted my obstetrician's office to confirm that my eight-week appointment could remain confidential from anyone besides me. The nurse was reassuring: I controlled who received my medical information. I wrote that sentence on a notepad because I'd forgotten how good a plain fact could sound.
At nine that evening, Vincent sent a photograph of Emma's bandaged hand, followed by an apology. I enlarged the picture automatically. The burn looked small, and the girl was smiling at someone beyond the frame. I was glad. Then I realized he'd sent me a picture of the child he had chosen over me, perhaps hoping her innocence would soften the truth of his choice. I wrote, Emma deserves care. So do I. Do not send me pictures of her as an argument.
His reply came immediately: I love you. I did not answer. Love was a word we'd used to cover distances on a map, gaps in calendars, and finally an entire second household. I needed to know what it meant when the speaker was asked to give something up. My phone rang again. This time it was Elena Park, offering an appointment the next morning. I accepted before I could talk myself into waiting for Vincent to solve things.
Nora appeared in the doorway with a clean blanket. "Anything you need before I turn in?" she asked. "Tell me something ordinary." She thought for a moment. "The arts center called.
They want you back teaching Tuesday evenings if you're feeling up to it." I'd taught ceramics there between Vincent's visits, shaping bowls and helping teenagers discover that collapsing clay wasn't a personal failure. For years I'd described the work as a way to stay busy. Suddenly I understood how much of myself I'd concealed behind that phrase.
"Tell them yes," I said. Nora smiled and left me alone. I lay awake listening to traffic outside her window, one hand resting low on my abdomen. My baby was smaller than the image I'd seen on the ultrasound, yet that tiny heartbeat had already changed the way I answered questions. I had once measured my days by when Vincent might come back. Tomorrow I would meet a lawyer. On Tuesday I would teach. The next day, I would decide for myself.
May you like
Just after midnight, a message arrived from Vincent's Chicago house manager: Mr. Moretti has asked that your bags be packed and the guest suite prepared. He intends to arrive tomorrow. My first instinct was to tell the manager which clothes to include, to make the house ready for a visit I'd spent years begging for.
Instead, I typed: Please don't pack anything. I won't be there. Then I called Elena's office and added one more thing to our appointment: Vincent was coming to Chicago, and I wanted to know how to speak to him without surrendering my choices.
