Four years later, when Sophie was born, Monica made another joke at
Thanksgiving.
“Looks like Mike is going to be surrounded by women for the rest of his
life.”
Everyone laughed again.
I laughed too.
At the time, I convinced myself they meant nothing by it.
Age teaches you something about jokes.
People often hide their most honest feelings inside them.
When Sabrina announced that she was pregnant, everything changed.
When she told Michael she was expecting a boy, the Carrington family
behaved as if someone had announced the arrival of an heir.
Helen sent flowers.
Monica accompanied Sabrina to appointments.
Richard talked about opening an investment account for his future
grandson.
The baby had not even been born.
Yet everyone was already planning his future.
Sabrina was invited to Sunday dinners.
She attended birthdays.
She appeared at company events.
Meanwhile, Michael came home later and later.
Our daughters noticed.
Children always notice more than adults think they do.
One evening, eight-year-old Sophie sat across from me at the kitchen
table.
I was helping her with homework.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Why does Dad always smile at his phone now?”
I paused.
There are questions children ask that have no good answer.
“Sometimes adults make choices that are difficult to explain.”
Sophie studied my face.
Then she asked quietly, “Are his choices making you sad?”
That nearly broke me.
I could have lied.
Instead, I said, “A little.”
She reached across the table.
She placed her small hand over mine.
That tiny gesture gave me more comfort than her father had given me in
months.
By the time we arrived at the mediator’s office that morning, my
marriage was already over in every way except legally.
Michael knew it.
I knew it.
Apparently, half his family knew it too.
Monica had insisted on accompanying him.
After we signed the papers, Michael leaned back in his chair.
He looked like a businessman who had just closed a profitable deal.
“The downtown condo stays with me,” he said.
“And so does the Range Rover.”
“We already settled that.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He seemed almost disappointed that I was not arguing.
Then he continued.
“And since you wanted primary custody, you can handle the girls.”
“I’ll see them when my schedule allows.”
Even the mediator looked uncomfortable.
I felt something inside me turn cold.
But I kept my voice even.
“They’re your daughters, Michael.”
