Chapter 8 #2
I bit my lip immediately. Mistake. Not in front of the children.
Damien understood too.
"Marta, show Daddy the bunny with the bow," he said gently.
"I haven't finished yet."
"Then give him a serious face. Like mine."
She snorted. The tension eased slightly. Tim still didn't raise his eyes.
After dinner Damien cleared the dishes himself. I could see, from the corner of my eye, how he wanted to come over, touch me, help me take off my jacket, fix my bandage. Before, those little gestures would have warmed me. Now my body tensed in advance, like before a blow.
When the children went upstairs to brush their teeth, he finally approached.
"Where were you?"
"Out."
"I'm not asking as a warden."
"Then as whom?"
"As a person who didn't know where the mother of his children was, with a cut hand, after barely sleeping."
"The mother of your children was at a job interview."
He froze.
"A job interview?"
"Yes."
"You decided to go back to work?"
"Yes."
"And when were you planning to discuss this?"
I looked at him and almost smiled.
"With whom?"
"With me."
"Why?"
He exhaled slowly.
"Because it affects the children, the schedule, the house. Because we're still a family, no matter how much you want to deny that right now."
"I'm not denying the children. I'm denying your right to approve my life."
"I'm not approving. I want to understand what's happening."
"You fell in love with transparency awfully late."
He took the hit. Didn't answer right away, and that was new. Before, the response would have been instant—precise, cold, aimed at my weak spot.
"All right," he said. "I deserved that. But if you're taking on a project, I need to know the schedule so I can adjust with the kids."
"You'll adjust?"
"Yes."
"Without remarks about me abandoning the house?"
"Niki."
"No, answer. Without 'we'll see,' without 'you won't cope,' without the covert personal trainer for my discipline. You'll adjust?"
"I'll adjust."
"Great."
I headed for the stairs.
"One more thing," he said.
I stopped.
"Lara is flying out next week."
The name struck me between the shoulder blades.
"I don't care."
"You do care."
I turned.
"Are you really about to explain to me what I feel?"
"No. I'm saying it can't be all the same to you twenty-four hours after something like this. And if you tell me 'I'm in pain,' I will hear it. But if you keep saying 'I don't care' every time, we'll both be talking to a stone wall."
"And who were you talking to when you were sleeping with my sister? A living wife?"
He paled.
"I'm not asking you to choose your words for my comfort."
"Then don't. I'm still choosing carefully. Very carefully."
"I can tell."
"No, Damien. You're just starting to look."
From upstairs, Marta called:
"Mom, Dad, are you coming to read?"
We both raised our heads.
"Coming," Damien said.
"I'm reading tonight," I said.
"Fine."
"And I'm putting Tim to bed."
"Fine."
"And you don't come in without asking."
He looked at me for a long time.
"I understand."
I went upstairs. Marta chose the story; Tim lay beside her, though he usually considered himself too old for her books. I read, and my voice barely shook. Halfway through the story, Marta fell asleep. Tim didn't.
"Mom."
"Yes?"
"Were you somewhere today for yourself?"
I closed the book.
"Yes."
"Good."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
"When you came back, you were different."
"Different how?"
"Like you weren't waiting for Daddy to say something."
I turned away, because the tears rose instantly again. That was how a child defines freedom: not waiting for Daddy to speak.
"Sleep, my sweet boy."
In the hallway, Damien stood by the wall. Not eavesdropping. Or eavesdropping and not pretending he'd just happened to be passing by. I walked past.
"Niki."
"No."
"I haven't said anything yet."
"I'm saying no in advance."
For the first time all day, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A tired acknowledgment of impact.
"I don't hate you every single second," I said quietly.
"Sometimes I forget for a minute. When you're holding Marta.
When you talk to Tim normally. When you stay quiet where before you would have struck with a word.
And then I remember Lara, and I want to tear my own skin off, because you're still inside me.
That's the most disgusting part. Not that I hate you.
But that I can't just stop loving you all at once. "
He stood absolutely motionless.
"Niki..."
"Don't come closer."
He didn't.
"I don't know where you are inside me, Damien. And I don't know if I want to look."
I closed myself in the bedroom. Not with the key. I just closed the door. That was more important. The key protected against him. The door without the key tested him.
An hour later, when the house had gone quiet, I opened my email on my phone.
Ira had already sent the project documents.
Contract, timeline, first payment. I stared at the advance figure and could barely believe it.
A small sum. Laughable by Damien's standards.
Enormous for a woman who for the first time in years could say: this is mine.
Downstairs the study door clicked. Then footsteps. Damien stopped outside my bedroom. I saw the shadow beneath the door. My heart slammed against my ribs once, twice, three times.
He didn't knock.
Didn't enter.
He simply set something on the floor on the other side and left.
I waited until his steps faded, opened the door, and saw a thin folder. Inside were copies of documents: the house, accounts, cars, insurance policies, children's trust funds. On top, a note in his handwriting: "You'll ask. I don't want you to have to beg."
I sank to my heels right there in the doorway.
My first thought was idiotic: he heard.
My second was scarier: so there's something to hide.