After years of marriage, apparently that was what I had become.
Eric appeared behind her.
He was barefoot.
Comfortable.
Annoyed.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m not asking for money for myself.”
He glanced toward Chloe.
“Her treatments are expensive.”
“Claire.”
“Just look at her.”
He barely did.
“She’s your daughter.”
“I told you not to bring this here.”
Tessa folded her arms.
I felt humiliation crawling up my neck.
“I’m not asking you to come home.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking you to help take care of your child.”
Eric looked at me.
“I have a life now.”
Then he nodded toward the carrier.
“Stop showing up with your little brat.”
Something inside me went completely still.
Tessa laughed.
Then Eric closed the door.
I stood there staring at painted wood.
Behind me, Chloe made a tiny sound.
That sound saved me.
Because suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about Eric anymore.
I was thinking about her.
I carried my daughter back to the car.
And for the first time since he left, I stopped wondering how to convince him to care.
By the time I got home, I had cried until my face hurt.
My neighbor June saw me struggling with Chloe’s carrier and came downstairs.
“Give me that.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
She carried Chloe upstairs.
Then asked:
“What do you need?”
I almost said nothing.
That had become automatic.
Then I looked at my daughter.
And realized pride wasn’t going to buy her medicine.
So I opened my phone.
And called the last person I ever expected to ask for help.
Barbara.
Eric’s mother.
Barbara and I had never been close.
She thought I was too sensitive.
I thought she had spent thirty-four years making excuses for her son.
We were probably both right.
After Eric left, she stopped calling.
I assumed she had chosen him.
