Chapter 13
January
a friend of yours
Colin
I hang up the phone and set it back on my desk a little harder than necessary. Montgomery Clifford is in chaos. Numbers under review. Decisions stalling. Trust eroding by the day.
The board circles like vultures, pretending it’s about “stability” and “shareholder confidence”, when what they really want is to force my hand.
They talk about restructuring. About bringing in an external executive temporarily.
As if I don’t see it for what it is. A quiet coup disguised as concern.
Every conversation feels like a test. Every question is loaded.
Investors want guarantees I can’t give. Projections no one could honestly stand behind in this mess.
I sit through meeting after meeting, watching people who once looked to me for direction now exchange glances across the table, waiting for me to crack.
It feels like being surrounded by sharks in a glass tank. All smiles on the surface. All teeth underneath.
I barely sleep anymore.
When I close my eyes, I see spreadsheets, contracts, and faces—my team’s, my father’s, my kids’. Cecily’s. Always hers. The one I can’t seem to erase, no matter how much I try to focus on work.
At least I don’t have to deal with Maya for now.
She’s been on leave since everything came to light and isn’t due back until next week. The last time she reached out, it was just one message—a new sonogram image attached, with the words: “Our baby is growing.” I barely looked at it before blocking her number.
Christmas should’ve been a reprieve. It wasn’t.
It started like every other family gathering.
My father at the head of the table, glass of whiskey in hand, pretending to be the pillar of moral authority.
Until he started in on me. The criticism was relentless and precise—every word designed to remind me of how far I’ve fallen, how much I’ve tarnished the family name.
I tried to hold it together, but something in me snapped.
I told him the truth. That he, my uncles, half the men on my mother’s side had done the same.
Cheated. Lied. Pretended to be honorable men while leaving wives and children behind to deal with the damage.
The only difference was that they were just better at pretending, lying, and covering their tracks.
He didn’t even look shaken. Just raised his glass and said,
“At least we did it right. None of us ended up the fool at the table.”
That was it for me. I stood up, left the table, left the house.
But what hurts isn’t even being the target of their criticism or jokes.
It’s my kids… the way they look at me now, the same way I used to look at my father. With indifference. Contempt.
As if I’m an obligation rather than anything else.
I've been going to the house almost every day, hoping something will shift—that maybe one night, the door will open and I’ll see a spark of recognition instead of distance.
But Ethan doesn’t come down anymore. I guess he doesn’t feel the need to, not now that even his sister doesn’t want to be around me.
Alicia greeted me once with a soft “hi” before disappearing upstairs again, her footsteps fading too quickly for me to say her name.
And Cecily... she stands close most days, arms folded. She doesn’t have to say much. The look in her eyes is enough.
At least they’ll start therapy soon. And with Alicia changing schools, maybe things will begin to shift, maybe she’ll have a chance to breathe again, to find something normal in all this chaos.
But I’m not giving up on my kids. Even if they don’t want to see me right now, I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep trying.
I rub at my chest, there’s a kind of pain that doesn’t scream anymore. It just sits there, heavy and dull, like a weight you can’t shake off. That’s where I live now.
In the wreckage I built myself.
Cecily
The drive back home feels longer than usual.
Maybe it’s because I keep glancing at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see Alicia’s face again. The way she tried to be brave this morning, clutching her backpack so tight her knuckles turned white.
Her new school isn’t far.
Same district, different atmosphere. It’s the school Felicity’s older daughter, Hazel, attends. Familiar enough that Alicia won’t feel completely out of place, but distant enough to give her a sense of comfort, and maybe even the hope of a new beginning.
I’d spent weeks trying to get her to open up about it, to talk even a little about how she felt. But every time the topic came up, she’d deflect, change the subject, and I let her. I didn’t want to push; I just wanted her to know I was there, that she could come to me when she was ready.
It was on the first day of the year, up at the cabin, when everything finally came to a head.
Colin showed up to see the kids, looking like someone who hadn’t slept in days.
I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to see him.
I wished that, at least on the first day of the year, I wouldn’t have to deal with him at all.
Being in his presence still hurt, and talking to him often felt exhausting, almost impossible.
But for the kids, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do.
We ended up talking inside his car, parked near the trees. For a moment neither of us spoke, the wind outside the only sound breaking the silence.
“She doesn’t want to go back to school,” I tell him. “She had a horrible nightmare the other night. She says everyone knows. That they’ll all be staring at her. Laughing behind her back.”
He sits there for a long moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead like he doesn’t trust himself to look at me.
“She shouldn’t have to go through that,” he says finally, his voice low. “None of this is her fault.”
“I’ve been thinking about moving her to a new school,” I admit. “Even though the year’s already started.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what she needs,” he says. “A clean start. A different school, different faces. Somewhere she won’t feel like she’s being punished for my choices.”
He hesitates, then adds more softly, “I have a few contacts. I can make some calls. We could get her in somewhere else, if you think it’s the right thing.”
For the first time in a long while, we’re not arguing. We’re just two parents, sitting in a parked car on a cold January morning, trying to protect our daughter from a world that suddenly feels too cruel.
I nod slowly, my voice barely steady. “Hazel goes to the one on the east side,” I say. “It’s smaller. More structured. Less than half an hour from home.”
“That could work,” he says quickly. “If she’s comfortable there, it’s worth it.”
And just like that, a plan starts to take shape. A week later, the paperwork is done. The tuition transferred. The uniforms ordered.
I made the same offer to Ethan, but he refused, said he could handle whatever came his way. He even offered to wake up earlier and drive Alicia before heading to his own school. But that’s out of the question. They’re on opposite sides, and I told him as much.
I know he always wants to help, and I thanked him for it. But I also keep reminding him that he’s a teenager, after all. That he should spend time with his friends, focus on his studies, and let me take care of them, not the other way around.
As I drive home, I tell myself we did the right thing. That this new beginning will give Alicia a chance to breathe again, to just be a teenage girl, not someone defined by what her father did.
But deep down, I know how fragile peace can be.
And I know, too, that no matter how careful we are, the ghosts of what happened always find their way in.
The sunroom has become the only place in the house where I can really disconnect.
The light filters weakly through the glass panels, pale and cold against my skin. It’s a winter light that feels more like memory than warmth.
I sit at the small wooden table and open my laptop. I start arranging my folders, focusing on the mindless tasks that keep my hands occupied and my thoughts at bay.
Work has always been the easiest way to drown out the noise.
Words don’t judge, don’t ask questions, don’t look at me with pity. They just demand focus and that’s something I can give.
I’m halfway through sorting my files when the doorbell rings.
I grab my phone and open the doorbell app. The image comes into focus and my stomach drops.
It’s Barbara. Colin’s mother.
Standing right in front of the door.
For a few seconds, I just stare, gathering the strength for whatever it is she’s come here to do.
I can count on both hands, and still have fingers left, the number of times she or Richard have come by for any reason at all since we moved to Brooklyn.
I close the laptop, smooth the front of my sweater, and take a steadying breath. My fingers tremble slightly as I walk toward the entryway.
At the door, I wait just long enough to hear my own heartbeat before finally unlocking it.
“Barbara.”
Her gaze sweeps over me, cool and assessing, before she offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Cecily,” she says. “We need to talk.”
I nod slowly, forcing a small smile that feels more like reflex than warmth.
“Of course. Come in.”
Barbara steps inside, taking a moment to glance around as if she’s cataloguing every change since the last time she was here, which, if I’m being honest, was years ago.
Her perfume lingers as she passes me, the same classic scent she’s worn forever. It always arrives before she does and stays long after she’s gone.
“I’ll make us some coffee. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I say, my voice low.
She gives a curt nod, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she walks ahead into the living room.
In the kitchen, I take a deep breath and rest both hands on the counter for a moment. My reflection in the dark surface of the coffee maker looks tired, older somehow. I go through the motions mechanically. Soon, the rich, bitter smell surrounds me.