Chapter 8 #2
I need you to know I just spent FORTY-FIVE MINUTES on a client call with a woman who wants a logo that feels “divorced but hopeful.”
Not “divorced and hopeful.” Not “post-divorce optimism.” DIVORCED. BUT. HOPEFUL.
As if the divorce itself is somehow optimistic. Like it’s the emotional equivalent of finding twenty dollars in an old handbag. Also, apparently she wants “warmth” but “not too much warmth.” So basically: trauma but make it beige.
Anyway. Reminder that if you ever decide to fake your death, I already have several aesthetic location ideas.
Mountains say: “She found peace.” Beach says: “She ran away with a mysterious woman named Celeste who owns a pottery studio.” Forest says: “She joined a cult but like… one with organic soup.” Just know you have options.
I laugh, sudden enough that Daniel looks over, his expression changing to mild surprise.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, reaching for the remote to pause the movie.
I show him the screen, Liv’s message still visible: “reminder that if you decide to fake your death, I already have several aesthetic location ideas.”
He laughs too, a genuine sound that makes something in my chest twist and for approximately four seconds, we are just two people laughing at the same thing on a couch.
The moment passes. Daniel reaches for the remote, the movie resumes, and we settle back into our careful non-touching, the distance we’ve established could be measured in fractions of an inch. Twenty minutes later, during a particularly loud explosion sequence, Daniel pauses the film again.
“I’m just going to check on the twins,” he says, already standing. “That noise seems too loud with their room right above us.”
He’s being thoughtful. Considerate. The type of husband who notices when the television might disturb sleeping babies. Before the text, I would have found it endearing. Now I just nod and turn back to the television I’m not watching.
The occasional creak of the floorboards is the only souls I hear as Daniel moves through the upstairs hallway. My phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with Harper’s name. Not in the group chat. A private message, just to me.
“You don’t need to reply,” it reads. “Just making sure you know I am here.”
A few simple words, delivered without expectation or demand.
I read it twice, then put my phone face-down on my thigh and stare at the television without seeing it. My brain keeps replaying the moment Daniel laughed, the sound so familiar it felt like a ghost in the room. For four seconds, we were just us again.
The baby monitor glows on the coffee table, a small blue light in the dim room.
Through its tiny speaker, I can hear the soft, even sounds of the twins breathing.
They’re fine. They’re safe. Their mother has been sitting on a couch three feet from their father, listening to the static between heartbeats and trying not to think about the fact that soon, this will all be different.
Daniel returns ten minutes later, settling back into his position with easy confidence. “They’re fine,” he says, reaching for the remote. “Sound asleep. Didn’t even stir when I opened the door.”
“Good,” I say, the word automatic. “Thanks for checking.”
He nods, already focused on the screen, and hits play. The movie resumes, explosions, dramatic music, women and we sit in silence as two people sharing space without actually being in it together.
My phone sits face-down on my thigh, Harper’s message still glowing on the screen beneath it. You don’t need to reply. Just making sure know I am here.
I am surviving. Just barely.
***
The car park behind Page & Grounds is dark.
Behind me, the twins make the soft settling noises of almost-asleep babies.
My phone sits in my lap, Clara’s number glowing on the screen.
I’ve been staring at it for eight minutes.
Each call makes this more real, turning the abstract possibility of divorce into something concrete and unavoidable.
I press call before I can change my mind.
She answers on the third ring, her voice carrying the quality of someone who’s delivered difficult information so many times it no longer requires softening. “Elsie,” she says. “Good timing. I was just reviewing your file.”
“Hey,” I say, my voice steadier than I expected. “Sorry to call so late.”
“Not at all,” she says, and I can hear the soft click of a keyboard in the background. “I’m still at the office. How are you holding up?”
It’s such a normal question that for a moment, I don’t know how to answer. Then I shrug, even though she can’t see it. “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m getting there.”
“That’s good, it is a bit of a journey,” she says, her voice soothing and calm. “And you’re handling it well. The documentation is progressing nicely, I think we are almost ready to move forward.”
Relief settles in. “That’s good,” I say. “I’ve been trying to keep going, but it’s hard. I didn’t want to mess up anything.”
“You haven’t,” Clara says with quiet certainty. “The notes on his attendance to medical appointments, childcare arrangement and financials will be useful for custody.”
“I can only imagine how hard this has been,” Clara continues, her voice measured.
“Patience protects your position. The longer you can maintain the status quo while gathering evidence, the stronger your case becomes. I know it’s difficult.
But we are almost at the finish line. The forensic accountant is still going over your joint accounts and when that’s done we can move. ”
It has been hard. Three months of careful documentation, of not letting Daniel know that everything is different.
“I can hold out until we are set,” I say, the words coming out more firmly than I expected. “Whatever it takes.”
Clara is quiet for a moment, and I can picture her sitting at her desk with her reading glasses pushed up into her dark hair, one hand resting on the mouse as she considers her next words.
“There’s something else,” she says finally.
“I’d like you to begin quietly noting patterns around Daniel’s family involvement.
Not to manufacture anything, just to document reality accurately.
Sometimes grandparents appeal for grandparent rights.
And as unlikely as it is, anything that establishes a clear picture of their roles in the children’s lives would be helpful. ”
The request surprises me. Not because it’s unreasonable, it makes sense really. Turning their relationship with their grandparents into evidence, their daily routine into ammunition just feels strange and wrong.
“I understand,” I say, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.
“Elsie,” Clara says, and there’s something in her voice, a particular quality of understanding that makes my throat tight.
“This isn’t leverage, Elsie. It’s about establishing a pattern of care.
The court needs an accurate picture of what stability currently looks like for your children, and who provides it. ”
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I know,” I say. “I’ll start tonight.”
We finish the call with the usual practicalities and then she’s gone, the line going quiet with a soft click. I sit in the dark car park with the phone in my lap.
Behind me, Milo makes a small sound and then settles back into the rhythm of almost-sleep. Maisie is already gone, her breathing slow and even, one tiny hand curled around the octopus toy.
I open a new note on my phone, lock it with a separate passcode, and type the date.
Then I sit there with my thumb hovering over the keyboard, suddenly unsure what to write.
How do you document the interaction of your in-laws?
What’s the appropriate format for recording the relationship babies have with them?
The moment feels surreal, me watching myself do this with the detached clarity of someone observing a stranger log details, preparing for a trial nobody else knows is happening yet.
There should be a form for this, I think.
A specific template for “Things I Noticed About My In-Laws Today.” A drop-down menu of betrayal options.
A checkbox for “I am now the person who takes notes on my husband’s family interactions with our children. ”
In the end, I keep it simple: “Grandparents last saw the twins two weeks ago at my cafe.”
It’s not much, barely a sentence, hardly worth documenting, but it’s a start. Evidence that I’m doing what Clara asked. Evidence that I’m moving forward, one small, painful step at a time.
I put the phone in my bag, start the car, and pull out of the car park.
The streets are quiet at this hour, just the occasional passing car and the soft hum of the engine beneath us.
In the back seat, the twins have fully given in to sleep, their faces slack with exhaustion, their chests rising and falling in perfect unison.
We’re home in twenty minutes, the driveway, the front door, the careful process of unloading sleeping babies without waking them.
Daniel meets us at the door, takes Milo without being asked, and carries him upstairs.
I follow with Maisie, her warm weight against my chest, her tiny hand curled around my finger with trust.
The rest of the evening unfolds in its usual routine of dinner, baths, and Maisie’s forty-minute protest against sleep. By the time we finally make it to bed, I’m on autopilot. Daniel is already under the covers, his eyes half-closed, a man at the end of a normal day in a normal life.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, change into the pyjamas.
I check the baby monitor, both twins asleep, Milo on his back with one arm flung dramatically above his head, Maisie curled on her side with her blanket clutched in one tiny fist and set it on the nightstand beside my phone.
I slide under the covers, careful to maintain the distance we’ve established and stare at the ceiling while Daniel’s breathing slows beside me.
Daniel’s side of the bed dips slightly as he rolls toward me, his movement casual in a way that makes my chest ache.
“I love you,” he says, the words delivered with the easy confidence of someone stating an obvious fact.
“I love you too,” I answer, the response so ingrained I don’t have to think about it.
Three simple words that used to contain an entire universe and now mean absolutely nothing at all.
Beside me, Daniel’s breathing slows and evens within minutes. I lie on my back in the dark, one hand resting on my phone beneath the blanket where Clara’s notes are still open on the screen, and stare at the ceiling while the baby monitor hums its soft mechanical nothing on the nightstand.
Tomorrow, I will add another line to the document. I will kiss him goodbye with the warmth I’ve perfected and feel that strange level of relief as he drives away.
But for now, in the dark, I try to convince myself that I am on the right path. That staying here in this painful moment will be worth it in the end.