Chapter 10
Ten
I’m so exhausted by the time we sit down for dinner that the food on my plate looks like it’s from another dimension.
Daniel made his speciality: penne with tomato sauce from a jar that he’s doctored with enough garlic and red pepper flakes to technically count as cooking.
It’s fine. It’s food. It’s also the only thing we’ve eaten that didn’t come from Page & Grounds in three days, so I’m shovelling it into my mouth like I’m being timed while bouncing Milo’s bouncer with my foot.
The kitchen table is chaos in its most specific form, mismatched placemats because we can’t agree on which set to register for (we’ve been married for four years), two bouncy chairs positioned within arm’s reach, and at least three different containers of baby supplies taking up what would normally be serving space.
Maisie sits in her chair watching everything with her usual unsettling calm.
Daniel eats with the relaxed confidence of a man who has never once worried about whether his body will return to its pre-baby shape. He’s scrolling briefly on his phone, thumb moving with practiced efficiency, then sets it face-down beside his plate with a small, satisfied nod.
“Oh,” he says, somewhere between a forkful of pasta and a comment about whether the recycling has been put out, “Mum’s organised a family gathering. In two weeks.”
The words shock me. I chew, swallow, reach for my water glass, and say nothing while my brain catalogues everything I know about Diane Quinn’s “relaxed” events.
Diane Quinn does not do “relaxed.” Diane Quinn does “performatively perfect.” The serving platters match.
The silverware is polished. The children are freshly bathed and wearing outfits with price tags that would make a small nation reconsider its annual budget.
The compliments come with hooks inside them, “Elsie, that colour is so brave on you” and “Daniel mentioned you’ve been so tired lately, isn’t it wonderful he’s so understanding? ”
“Just a relaxed family lunch,” Daniel continues, already reaching for the salt. “She misses seeing everyone together.”
Everyone. Together. Everyone means I will have an audience.
Together means another performance. And “relaxed family lunch” means I will spend approximately seventeen hours making appetizers that match Diane’s serving platters while answering questions about whether I’m “still working at that little bookshop” with the smile that suggests the appropriate female response to motherhood is complete economic surrender.
“She said to bring the twins, obviously,” Daniel adds, already moving on to his next bite. “Everyone’s excited to see how much they’ve grown.”
I nod, keeping my face arranged in what I hope is pleasant neutrality rather than the internal screaming that’s currently happening behind my ribs.
Daniel continues eating, mildly distracted, casually affectionate when Maisie makes a small noise from her bouncer.
He has absolutely no idea that the woman across from him is mentally calculating how many weeks of legal preparation she has left and whether two more weeks of this will actually kill her.
“Sounds nice,” I say, the words coming out steadier than expected. “The twins would love to see everyone.”
It’s not even a lie. They would. Maisie would watch the proceedings with her usual suspicious expression, and Milo would immediately attempt to destroy something irreplaceable while shrieking with delight. At least one of us would be having a good time.
“Great,” Daniel says, already moving on. “I think the car might need a service before then, though. It’s making that weird noise again when I turn left.”
And just like that, we’re back in the rhythm of domestic conversation. I nod, suggest the garage on Elm Street that fixed our headlights last winter.
Milo makes an unhappy sound from his bouncer and Daniel reaches for him automatically, lifting him with confidence.
“What’s up, little man?” he asks, bouncing Milo gently against his chest. “Not happy with the dinner conversation? I agree, carburettors are boring.”
For a second, the hollow feeling in my chest is almost unbearable. This is what makes it so hard, not the big betrayals. It’s these moments, the perfect seconds when Daniel is the man I thought I married, that catch me off guard every time.
“I’ll get his bottle,” I say, already standing. “He’s probably hungry again.”
By the time we finish dinner, dishes stacked in the dishwasher, leftovers transferred to containers that may or may not make it to the refrigerator, Milo half-asleep against Daniel’s chest, three water glass refills. Zero projectiles. I’m basically a candidate for sainthood.
“I’m going to put him down,” Daniel says, already heading for the stairs. “Then I’ll grab a shower if that’s okay?”
“Sure,” I say, already reaching for Maisie, who’s watching me already. “Take your time.”
He nods, kisses the top of my head with casual affection, and disappears upstairs with Milo against his chest. I stand in the kitchen with Maisie balanced on my hip, the remains of dinner spread across the counter, and Diane’s voice still playing in my head: Family is everything.
Marriage takes work. You two always look so happy together.
For a moment, just a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to show up at that lunch with Clara’s documentation in my hand.
To watch Diane’s perfect smile freeze on her face as I explain what her son has been doing while she’s been asking if I’m “still working at that little bookshop.” To see the careful architecture of Quinn family perfection crack and crumble under the weight of actual truth.
Then Maisie makes a small sound and the moment passes. I settle her against my chest, press a kiss to the top of her head, and head for the living room.
Two more weeks. I can do two more weeks. I can smile through one more family lunch. I can maintain this for fourteen more days.
And then I never have to do it again.
I drop onto the couch with Maisie balanced on my chest and my phone already in my hand. My thumb moves across the screen with practiced efficiency, opening the group chat and typing “Diane’s hosting a family lunch. Pray for me.” before I can talk myself out of it.
The responses arrive so fast it’s almost insulting, a digital pile-on that makes my phone vibrate with what feels like actual concern.
Luca fires back “I volunteer as tribute” followed approximately four seconds later by “Actually no. I volunteer my skills in arson.”
Before I can even process this, Liv sends “Need me to fake a medical emergency?”
My phone continues to buzz in my hand, message notifications stacking up like falling dominoes.
Luca has moved on to offering increasingly specific forms of sabotage, “I could tell her I’m your emotional support drag queen” and “I have a cousin who does competitive eating. We could bring her as a date and she’d clear the buffet in seven minutes flat”, while Liv provides a running commentary on the specific psychological warfare techniques Diane will deploy: “She’ll ask if you’re tired while subtly gesturing to your outfit” and “There will be one comment about your weight disguised as concern for your health.”
Harper’s message cuts through the noise with five simple words: “Do you want to go?”
I stare at it longer than the others because it’s the only message that treats the question as a real one.
Not as a joke or a crisis or a dramatic set piece, but as an actual decision with actual consequences.
Do you want to go? Not can you survive it or will it kill you or should we plan your escape, but the simpler, more complicated question of desire.
The shower continues running upstairs. My thumb hovers over the keyboard for a moment, suddenly unsure what to say.
The honesty sits in my throat, I don’t want to go.
I don’t want to sit across from Diane Quinn for three hours while she asks if I’m “still working” and tells Daniel he looks tired.
I don’t want to watch her orchestrate the show of family happiness that makes me feel like I’m failing even when I’m doing everything right.
“I don’t want to go,” I type finally, the words appearing on the screen smaller and more vulnerable than they felt in my head. “But I can’t refuse without creating questions I’m not ready to answer yet.”
The responses come quickly, Luca’s “VALID” in all caps, Liv’s “Then don’t“ followed by a vomit emoji, but it’s Harper’s private message that makes my chest tighten: “You’re allowed to leave early if it becomes too much.”
Just to me. Not in the group chat where everyone can see it. I read it twice, something warm settling in my chest.
I put my phone face-down by my side and stare at the ceiling for a moment, Maisie’s warm weight against my chest as small puffs of air escape her lips.
The living room is quiet except for the distant sound of Daniel moving through the upstairs bedroom, drawers opening and closing, the sound of someone getting dressed after a shower.
“You know,” I tell Masie quietly, “there was a time when I thought making his family like me was the most important thing in the world.”
She blinks at me, once, slowly, like she’s considering this information.
“Yeah, I know,” I agree. “Crazy right.” I pick up my phone, type “Thanks” to Liv’s message.
Daniel appears at the bottom of the stairs, his hair damp from the shower, a fresh t-shirt replacing the one he was wearing at dinner.
“Everything okay?” he asks, already moving toward the kitchen. “You look serious.”
“Just texting the girls,” I say, already locking my phone. “The usual.”
He nods, accepting this without question, and disappears into the kitchen. I watch him go, and I settle Maisie deeper against my chest, press a kiss to the top of her head, and reach for the remote with my free hand.