I closed my eyes.
Of course it did.
“Ethan, why didn’t you tell me Claire worked there?”
“I learned ten minutes ago.”
“Where is Rebecca now?”
“She’s trying to get to Houston.”
“Why?”
Another pause.
Then Ethan said, “Because Claire contacted her last week.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“She asked Rebecca about you.”
I stopped breathing.
“About me?”
“Yes.”
“What did she ask?”
“Whether you were still married to me.”
Marisol stood.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
“What else?”
“Whether you had a daughter.”
My eyes went immediately to Lily.
She was sitting on the carpet, coloring.
Safe.
Happy.
Purple crayon moving across paper.
“Why would she ask that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Rebecca answer?”
“Yes.”
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
“Why?”
“She thought Claire was asking because of me.”
“Because of your investigation?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did Claire say?”
“I don’t have the full conversation.”
“Get it.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try faster.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
Ethan went quiet.
Then said, “I will.”
For once, he didn’t correct my tone.
Didn’t tell me to calm down.
Didn’t take control.
That mattered.
More than I wanted it to.
“Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not forgiving you.”
“I know.”
“But I need you to tell me everything from now on.”
“Yes.”
“No deciding what I can handle.”
“Yes.”
“No protecting me with lies.”
His answer took longer.
Then:
“Yes.”
I looked at Lily.
“Good.”
I ended the call.
Marisol sat slowly.
“Well.”
I stared at her.
“You already used that word.”
“It continues to apply.”
Then Lily looked up from the floor.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“I made us a house.”
She held up the page.
There were three figures in front of a square with a chimney.
Lily.
Me.
And someone else.
My chest tightened.
“Who’s that?”
“Daddy.”
I sat beside her.
Ethan’s stick figure had a blue shirt and enormous hands.
“Why are his hands so big?”
“He fixes things.”
I almost laughed.
Almost cried.
Children remembered what adults forgot.
Before our marriage became silence and lawyers and locked accounts, Ethan had repaired broken cabinet doors.
Built Lily’s crib.
Fixed toys with tiny screwdrivers.
Maybe that was why grief inside a marriage was so strange.
You weren’t only grieving what someone had done.
You were grieving every good thing that had once been true at the same time.
