If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(116)

That last part would be easier if I hadn’t left our home for the last time less than an hour ago. Without drapes and carpets, the McMansion had felt cooler than the inside of its Sub-Zero refrigerator. A fitting end.

Recollections of those final moments spent in the foyer bombard me. On the wall, unfaded squares where my original paintings had hung. The faint echoes of the shrill bell on the pink bike Katy used to pedal across the floor, and of the futile marital arguments about missed soccer games and inconsiderate in-laws that replaced laughter and “I love yous.” The aroma of cocoa on rainy mornings spent seated in the family room’s window bench, where I’d stared past the pool to the wooded perimeter, wondering how I could be a mother and wife yet so lonesome.

Like shadows, my memories record the history of a family that will no longer live under one roof. Of the atrophied dreams and broken promises flayed by the sharp blade of divorce. But the worst part of my morning was the look on Katy’s tear-streaked face before she jumped into the yellow Jeep that Richard bought her on her sixteenth birthday, and sped away from me like a canary freed of its cage.

Now, while the brokers leave the conference room to confirm the wire transfer and the buyers exchange a celebratory kiss at the other end of the table, Richard turns to me. “Jim will be in touch to finalize the transfer of stocks and other things before the end of the week.”

It’s not surprising that my husband of seventeen years treats the end of our marriage as nothing more than another negotiation. His emotional IQ had dipped in direct inverse relation to his legal career’s spike. He’s probably quite self-satisfied for being so “generous” with our divorce settlement, but, honestly, I’d prefer less money in exchange for seeing even an ounce of regret in his eyes.

I say nothing about the stocks because “Thank you” seems unwarranted for something I earned in exchange for years of waiting patiently—raising our daughter largely on my own while supporting him as he built his practice—on the promise of the life we would one day share. Surprise! Instead of planning empty-nest vacation weekends in Bermuda, he dumped me to bestow those perks on Lauren, the interloper.

I hate Lauren. A blow-up-pictures-of-her-face-and-toss-darts, stopping-barely-short-of-wishing-harm-on-her kind of hate. And I’ve never hated anyone in my life, so I haven’t mastered control over the crippling surges of vengeance. It’s frightening, to be honest, so I redirect my thoughts and ask Richard about his plans with our daughter.

“Where are you taking Katy for lunch?” At the first hint of his confused expression, I grip my purse to keep from pounding my fists on the table. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

Sorry not sorry about my irked tone.

“I did.” He proceeds to scrub his face with both hands in one deliberate motion. God, that annoys me. Each gesture, word, and outfit are chosen with care. “I promised Lauren—”

“You cannot blow off Katy for your girlfriend today of all days.” Technically Lauren’s his new fiancée, but I won’t give her that respect. Three and a half months ago, Richard confessed his affair and asked for this divorce. Nine weeks ago, he moved out. His eagerness to move on is driving his acquiescence on financial and custody matters. Still, Richard’s already put a ring on Lauren’s finger although technically our divorce isn’t finalized. “Lauren sees you plenty. Katy needs your reassurance today. She’s having a rough time with the changes. Please be there for her, Richard.”

Ah, finally. The tiniest trace of guilt disrupts the cool surface of those Pacific-blue eyes. “I’ll have lunch with Katy.”

Again, “Thank you” seems unfitting. I settle on “Good.”

“But don’t act like I’m abandoning her. You’re taking her out of town.” He drums his fingers on the table, glowering.

He probably doesn’t expect me to smile in response, but I can’t help it. Purchasing my gram’s old Cape Cod–style home in the sleepy bayside town of Potomac Point has been my only silver lining in this situation.

Yes, part of me is fleeing Arlington to avoid both the pitying whispers of “friends” and bumping into Richard and Lauren. But my childhood summers on the water had been a salve after I lost my mother, and living there should help Katy deal with this loss. Plus, I want to spend more time with my gram before her dementia erases every shared memory.

Katy and I deserve something good in our lives, so I won’t apologize for it.

Still, Richard knows me well enough to suspect I wrestle doubts, mostly because of Katy’s intensifying anxiety about leaving her friends and changing schools. Yet every parenting book promises she’ll gain new confidence from learning to adapt. Real confidence, not the false kind she gets from tap-dancing to her father’s tune for praise. Once we get through these rocky first weeks, the change of pace will be good for us both.

“Please let me live with Dad,” Katy had pleaded before driving off. Each of those words had whistled through the air to pierce my heart like poison-tipped darts, and not only because I’ve devoted myself to parenting her. Richard hasn’t and won’t.

From the moment we accidentally conceived her in college, he’s loved the “idea” of his mini-me—our gorgeous, intelligent daughter—yet, over time, his priorities undermined her bit by bit, pecking away at her like a crow.