Chapter 6
Chapter Six
MORE HOURS
I am home with Noah after leaving the cafe.
Vivian’s card is still in my pocket.
I can feel the corner of it pressing against my thigh every time I move. It is ridiculous that a small rectangle of paper can feel heavier than my phone, my keys, and the entire diaper bag combined.
Noah is asleep.
The house is quiet.
Normally, this is the part of the day when I clean the bottles, move laundry into the dryer, wipe down the counters, and convince myself I will sit for five minutes once everything else is finished.
Today, I do none of that.
I place the baby monitor beside the laptop.
I sit at the kitchen table and open the folder I created after Vivian left.
Noah.
Inside is the document I started at the cafe.
Primary Care Record
The cursor is blinking again, waiting for me to continue my gathering of evidence.
I should know what to write.
I have been Noah’s mother every day of his life.
I know what time he wakes. I know which bottle he prefers. I know he rubs the edge of his blanket against his cheek when he’s tired.
I know he hates cold wipes.
I know he will eat bananas until he makes himself sick if I let him.
None of that looks official.
None of it looks like proof.
Vivian’s words come back to me.
Start documenting your motherhood.
His feeding schedule. His nap schedule.
The name of the pharmacy.
The brand of formula we used before he transitioned away from it.
The dates I introduced new foods.
I type until I am trying to prove every hour of the last year in a single document.
That is not how systems work.
I used to know that.
You do not throw everything into one file.
You separate it.
You categorize it.
You build something another person can understand without needing you to explain it.
I create more folders.
Medical
Daily Care
Childcare
Expenses
Messages
That kind of organizing calms me.
It’s really the first big thing that has.
Now I open the bank account.
Gavin handles most of the payments. Not because I am incapable. Because he took over when I was pregnant and nauseated and too tired to argue about which account paid which bill.
After Noah was born, I never took it back.
I search Paige’s name.
A long list of payments appears.
The first look ordinary.
Weekly amounts.
Consistent numbers.
Then I notice some are larger.
Not dramatically larger.
An extra hundred here.
An extra hundred and fifty there.
Enough to be overlooked.
I click one.
There’s a note attached.
Additional support.
I click another.
Evening infant care.
Then another.
Mother resting.
I stop.
I read that last one again.
Mother resting?
Note Claire requested additional coverage. Not Gavin worked later.
Not Paige staying because Noah was sick.
Mother resting.
The words make me sound fragile. They make it sound as if I could not handle my own child.
I did not write them. I did not ask for them. I open the next payment.
Extra assistance due to maternal exhaustion.
A hot wave moves through my body.
I grip the edge of the table.
Maternal exhaustion.
That sounds clinical. It sounds documented.
It sounds like something a person could point to later and say, See? She needed help. Everyone knew it.
I open my spreadsheet.
The one with the camera activity.
I add a new tab.
PAIGE PAYMENTS
I create columns.
Date.
Scheduled hours.
Amount paid.
Payment note.
Gavin home.
Camera paused.
Noah asleep.
I start entering dates.
The first extra payment lines up with a Tuesday afternoon when the camera was disabled.
The second lines up with a Thursday.
The third matches one of Gavin’s private client calls.
The notes claim Paige stayed because I needed rest.
I was at the cafe.
I was not resting.
I was working.
I open the shared calendar.
There it is.
My shift.
Nine to two.
Beside it, Gavin added a note.
Paige has Noah. Don’t rush home.
I remember that text.
At the time, I thought it was sweet.
I remember standing behind the cafe counter, smiling at the screen because my husband had given me permission not to feel guilty.
I search our messages.
The same phrases repeat.
Take your time.
Don’t worry about Noah.
Paige already fed him.
You deserve a break.
Stay and help Audrey close.
One message means concern.
A dozen messages become a pattern.
He did not simply encourage me to rest.
He created moments when I was not there.
He created hours when Paige was with Noah and Gavin could arrive without me questioning it.
Then he labeled those hours as support I required.
I feel sick.
The monitor crackles.
Noah makes a sound.
I am out of the chair before he cries.
By the time I reach his room, he is standing in the crib, one hand gripping the rail, the other holding his blanket.
He smiles when he sees me.
Immediate. Calm.
Like there was never a possibility someone else would come through that door.
I lift him.
He presses his face into my shoulder.
For several seconds, I hold him tightly.
“I love you,” I whisper to my son as he starts to squirm.
Downstairs, I put him in his playpen with stacking cups, and I return to the laptop.
I open the pediatric portal and go to appointment history.
Every checkup. Every vaccine. Every message.
My name appears on everything.
I scheduled the visits. I completed the forms.
I asked about the rash on his back.
I sent the photo when he developed a fever after his shots.
I attended every appointment except one.
Gavin attended one.
I save the records.
Not triumphantly.
Not because I want to beat him.
Because facts are the only thing that feels solid anymore.
Gavin calls.
I stare at his name before answering.
“Hey.”
His voice is easy and normal.
He asks about Noah. I tell him he just woke up from a nap.
Then he starts to ask about me.
How I’m feeling…
“Feeling?” I ask.
There’s a pause. “Claire, you seemed really tired this morning.”
I feel the words maternal exhaustion almost slipping out of my mouth but I hold them back.
I tell my husband I’m fine.
He tells me he might be late tonight.
Client dinner.
I look at the calendar and see there’s no client dinner.
“Okay,” I say.
“Tell Paige she can leave early tomorrow if Noah naps well.”
I look at Noah.
“Paige isn’t scheduled for tomorrow,” I say.
Gavin laughs. “I meant Thursday.”
Tomorrow is Thursday.
He knows that… or he’s losing track of which lie belongs to which day.
I say nothing, leaving Gavin scrambling and asking if we need anything from the store.
I tell him milk.
He says he loves me and I say it back.
Before the call ends, I’m adding a note…
Gavin referenced Paige working on an unscheduled day.
Then I delete it.
I don’t know what the schedule actually is right now.
I go back to the recent invoices.
The following already contains more hours than I approved.
Two evening blocks. One Saturday morning.
And a note.
Ongoing support as needed.
“As needed by whom?” I ask.
I save everything.
Noah hits some cups together and calls out, “Whoaaa” in his sweet, innocent voice.
I look at him. Then back at the screen.
A family is not a business. A child is not a line item.
But the records tell a story.
Gavin has already started writing one about me.
Now I am going to write the truth.
I thought Gavin had been giving me breaks.
He had been creating absences.