“Then let the records decide.”
Afterward, she drove me to a family-law attorney.
I stopped outside the elevator.
“I can’t afford this.”
“The consultation is covered.”
“Barbara—”
She raised one hand.
“After today, you handle your case.”
I stared at her.
“I’m opening a door, Claire. I’m not carrying you through it.”
That distinction mattered.
So I walked through.
I stopped calling Eric for mercy.
I organized bank statements.
Screenshots.
Medical bills.
Receipts.
Messages.
Dates.
My attorney handled the legal questions from there.
Two weeks later, Eric received formal paperwork addressing Chloe’s support and our financial dispute.
His first text arrived minutes later.
You’ve gone insane.
I forwarded it to my lawyer.
Then:
My mother is poisoning you against me.
Forwarded.
Then:
You’re trying to destroy my life.
Forwarded.
I didn’t argue.
For the first time, Eric wasn’t dealing with tears or pleading.
He was dealing with documentation.
A few days later, Barbara called.
“Tessa knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Enough.”
Apparently she’d overheard an argument.
Eric called Barbara while Tessa was shouting in the background.
“You told me she left you!”
Then:
“You said the house belonged to you!”
And finally:
“You said the baby didn’t need anything!”
Barbara pulled the phone away from her ear.
“I think he’s having a difficult evening.”
I smiled.
Not because Tessa was hurting.
But because Eric’s lies had finally started colliding with one another.
One evening, Barbara came over while Chloe slept beside us.
She watched her granddaughter for a long time.
Then she said:
