“You’re trying to take Lily.”
“No.”
“This says she lives with you.”
“This says we maintain her current home and school while everything gets sorted out.”
“You want every other weekend.”
“That is a proposal.”
“You cannot keep my daughter from me.”
“I’m not trying to.”
I opened the notebook.
“Vanessa, I have been the parent home with her almost every Saturday for months.”
“So?”
“You told me you were with Tessa.”
“I was sometimes.”
“You were using Tessa as cover.”
“That has nothing to do with whether I’m a mother.”
“No.”
I agreed immediately.
“That’s why I’m not saying the affair makes you an unfit mother.”
She looked surprised.
“But your actual parenting schedule matters.”
I pointed at the most recent entry.
Saturday.
Lily.
Fever 102.
Vanessa left at 11:34 p.m.
Vanessa’s eyes dropped.
“One bad night doesn’t decide custody.”
“You’re right.”
Again, she looked surprised.
“It doesn’t.”
I closed the notebook.
“This isn’t about punishing you.”
“It feels like it.”
“That doesn’t make it true.”
She began crying.
Real crying.
Not the frantic tears from the club.
Quiet.
Exhausted.
For the first time that night, I saw a version of the woman I married.
It hurt.
“Caleb, please.”
I looked away.
“Can we just wait?”
“No.”
“Thirty days.”
“No.”
“Counseling.”
“I asked you months ago to spend time with me.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I didn’t know we were this bad.”
“You were sleeping with Grant.”
Vanessa flinched.
I lowered my voice.
“You knew.”
She covered her face.
Upstairs, Lily coughed.
Both of us looked toward the ceiling.
I stood immediately.
Vanessa started to rise.
I looked at her.
“Let her sleep.”
That was the first boundary.
Small.
But real.
Vanessa slept in the guest room.
The next morning, she packed two bags.
“I’m going to Mom’s.”
I nodded.
“When can I see Lily?”
“Whenever we agree.”
She looked suspicious.
“I’m not keeping her from you.”
Vanessa’s face softened slightly.
Then hardened again.
“I’m getting a lawyer.”
“You should.”
That was not sarcasm.
Everybody needed lawyers now.
At noon, Diane arrived.
Vanessa’s mother.
For nine years, Diane and I had maintained a relationship I would describe as polite diplomacy.
She never insulted me directly.
But I knew she had wanted Vanessa to marry someone more impressive.
Doctor.
Lawyer.
Executive.
Not an electrician who came to Thanksgiving wearing work boots because he had spent that morning repairing somebody’s panel.
I expected Diane to defend her daughter.
Instead, she stood on my porch alone.
Her eyes were red.
“Is Lily here?”