Four #3
Elsie laughs, but the sound is raw at the edges.
We sit, kids included, and for a while the only conversation is the controlled chaos of small children at a table they consider a battlefield.
Milo eats with his hands. Maisie eats with methodical neatness, pausing to offer a portion to Liv, who dramatically pretends to faint from gratitude.
Luca tells a story about a customer at the café who tried to return a scone because it was “too dry.” He delivers the story in a series of accents, none of them accurate, all of them offensive in at least one country. Leo chimes in, explaining the snail drama in our garden to Milo.
We eat. I drink wine. I drink more. For twenty minutes, I let the noise of the room drown out everything else.
Every time a lull threatens to open, someone fills it, Maisie demanding to know if vampires eat salad, Liv relaying a meme about murder podcasts, Luca detailing his plan for a heist involving a truckload of cake flour.
After dinner, Leo and the twins are banished to the living room with a movie. There is a negotiation over which one, resolved by a coin toss. Once they’re gone, the volume drops. The four of us sit at the table, wine glasses still mostly full, the last crumbs of garlic bread picked clean.
There’s a long silence. Then Liv says, “Okay, lay it on us. How bad is it?”
I don’t have the energy to be diplomatic. “He’s not even pretending he wants to fix it. He’s already lawyered up. I think he’s been planning this for a while.”
Elsie’s lips press tight, but she doesn’t interrupt. Luca pours more wine.
“He said I could ‘tell Leo whatever I want,’” I say. “Like parenting is a fucking press conference.”
Luca mutters, “Dick.”
Liv’s smile is sharp, but not unkind. “Let me guess, he’s going to fight you for the house and then try to make you the villain.”
I nod. “Probably. Or maybe he’ll just ghost us entirely.”
Elsie finally speaks. Her voice is steady, but her hands twist at her napkin. “You don’t have to do it alone.”
I look at her, and not for the first time today, I feel the urge to cry, but nothing comes out.
The rage, when it comes, is small and cold. “I haven’t even told Leo the whole truth and Ethan’s already closing up shop behind me.”
Liv says, “That’s why you need a better lawyer. And a bigger divorce war chest.”
I want to laugh. Instead, I just nod. “Clara says it’s manageable. I’m trying to believe her.”
Elsie reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. “You can do this.”
We sit there, all four, not trying to fix, not even trying to comfort, just bearing witness. It’s the only thing that helps.
Eventually, the twins crash into the kitchen, demanding dessert.
Maisie insists on cutting the brownies herself.
Milo gets frosting in his hair. Leo tries to stack brownies like building blocks, and when they collapse, he shrugs and eats the wreckage.
For five minutes, all I have to do is referee the madness that is my kitchen.
The evening winds down. Luca wipes down the table. Liv collects the wine glasses. Elsie finds a clean T-shirt in my laundry and changes Milo, then lines up the twins at the door, both wrapped in matching hoodies like a set of human bookends.
Luca hugs me, pressing his cheek to mine, his cologne lingering on my skin after he’s gone. Liv’s hug is quick, but she squeezes hard, and when she lets go, she says, “Text me if you want to talk about actual murder, not just the theoretical kind.”
Elsie is last. She lingers at the door, shifting Maisie from one hip to the other. “Call me if you need anything,” she says. “Any time. Even if it’s just to yell.”
I nod. “I will.”
I lock the door after them, double-check that all the windows are closed, then wander through the house picking up the stray debris of the night: a half-eaten brownie, a plastic dinosaur on the stairs, a tea towel balled in the corner of the couch.
I check on Leo, already asleep on the living room floor, his hand clutching a tiny stegosaurus.
In the kitchen, I pour another glass of wine and open my laptop.
The login to the joint bank account fails.
I try three times. Each attempt is like a slap.
The personal account is untouched, all the automatic transfers still in place, my book royalties quietly gathering in a side pocket Ethan never bothered to ask about.
With a horrified sort of realisation I understand. He really was planning this. He really locked me out of our joint accounts.
I text Clara.
“He changed the joint account password. I’ll get you what I can from my side and I already had most of it printed for you earlier. Still working on the lawyer’s name though.”
She responds instantly: “You’re doing great. One day at a time. Are you going to be ok for money until we sort this out?”
“We will be fine.” I reply. It comes out slightly harsh and I feel bad when she ends the call quickly after that.
I stare at the screen, then pick up my phone and text Ethan:
Need the name of your lawyer for Clara. Let me know.
I put the phone down, face-up, and wait to see if he’ll answer this one.
The house is silent, except for the fridge humming and the faint echo of the TV from the living room. I sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around the wineglass, and I wonder if anyone else is sitting in their own kitchen, wondering when their life exploded.