"He doesn't know," I say, my voice quiet.
Diane blinks. "He doesn't know his wife has a job?"
"It's new," I plaster on a smile that doesn't fit. "I just got it today."
"I'm surprised you haven't called him, though," she says, her eyes narrowing.
It’s the mom look, the one that slowly strips away all of my defenses.
"I would if he would answer," I mutter quietly, takinganother bite of the bread.
Diane hears me, of course, and maybe I wanted to be heard.No, I did.I'm tired of biting my tongue, of hiding the truth like it's something for me to be ashamed of.
I only have the courage for a slow drip, but it's coming either way.
"Wendy, what is going on?" Diane says, concern dripping from every syllable. "I barely hear from my own son nowadays, and when I do, it's a one-word text. He's been working like a dog—is something going on? Do you need money? Are you guys in trouble—"
"I'm going to separate from Atlas."
It falls out of my mouth all at once.
I have an appointment with Imani next Saturday, at her office in the city, where we can sit down and discuss all the details of filing for divorce.
In our state, a divorce requires a full year of separation—no cohabitation, no sleepovers—before the court will finalize it.
They’ll review Atlas’ income to determine child and spousal support. Imani assured me I’d retain sole custody, with Atlas having weekend visitation.
She asked me, very seriously, if Atlas would react violently or erratically to a surprise. I could truthfully say that Atlas would rather cut off his own arm than ever harm me physically.
She then advised me to not speak to him about our meeting and my plans to file.
I think she also sensed that if he thought I was getting ready to leave, he might make promises that he wouldn't keep and just delay the inevitable. She spoke about this like someone who's seen it happen a hundred times.
I told her it wouldn't be a problem to keep him in the dark.
He's been doing the same to me for the last year.
"What?"
Diane's eyes are wide, her tone disbelieving, like I just told her the sky was falling.
I clear my throat. "He's been… gone."
"Gone?"
"Gone, Mom," I choke out, eyes filling with tears.
It all comes spilling out of me,months and months and monthsof hurt and loneliness and anxiety and fear and insecurity.
"He's gone. Not around. Not for Liam's basketball games. Noah's art shows. Not for me. Not at home. He comes in late and leaves early. He... he's just not there. I-I don't—"
Diane holds her hand up to stop my words, her eyes blazing. "Tell me...everything.From the beginning, sweetheart."
So I do.
From the beginning, I tell her about the sad, slow death of our marriage. Liam and Noah come into the kitchen halfway through, ready to go, but Diane tells them to go back outside with Emmett.
I try to turn away so they won't see me crying, but Liam looks—and he sees my red eyes. He's too old now to hide things from, and he knows something is wrong.
