I walk him to the door, the perfect dutiful wife, Blythe hiding behind my legs. He kisses my cheek—a performance for our daughter, for the neighbors who might be watching, likely even for himself.
“Consider what example you’re setting for our children,” he murmurs against my ear. “Teaching them to fear their father. To disrespect authority.”
The door closes behind him. I count to sixty, watching through the peephole until his car disappears down the street. Only then do I allow myself to fully exhale.
“Mommy?” Blythe tugs at my shirt. “Is Daddy coming to Tyson’s party?”
“No, baby.” I lift her up, breathe in the sleep-warm scent of her hair. “Daddy has to work. But we’re still going to have so much fun, okay?”
She nods, already distracted by the prospect of cake and presents. “Can I wake up Tyson now?”
“Let him sleep a little longer.” I carry her to the kitchen, mind racing. “How about we make special birthday pancakes?”
As I mix batter and heat the griddle, my thoughts circle. We can’t keep living like this.
I can’t keep pretending this is normal, that constant fear of saying the wrong thing is just what marriage is, what being a police wife means.
Can’t keep watching my children learn to navigate their father’s moods, to make themselves smaller, quieter, less inconvenient.
The voice recorder app sits unopened on my phone, downloaded weeks ago in a moment of clarity, unused in moments of doubt. Is it really that bad? Am I overreacting? What would happen to the kids if we left? Would anyone believe me—the wife of a decorated officer—over him?
“Can mine have chocolate chips?” Blythe asks, standing on her stool to peer at the griddle.
“Birthday pancakes always have chocolate chips,” I assure her, forcing a smile. “It’s the rule.”
My fingers trace the inside of my elbow, the unmarked skin that bore the brunt of yesterday’s “discussion” about the broken glass. No bruises. Never any bruises. Just the phantom pain of fingers digging in, of being held in place while he explained, reasonably and calmly, how disappointing I am. How lucky I am to have him. How no one else would put up with me.
In the other room, Tyson’s bedroom door creaks open. His footsteps, cautious on the hallway floor.
“Mom?” he calls. “Is Dad gone?”
The hesitation in his voice and the relief when I confirm Evan has left hardens something inside me.
I can’t leave today. Not on Tyson’s birthday. Not without a plan.
But somewhere between pouring pancake batter and lighting birthday candles, I make a silent promise to my children and to myself.
I open the voice recorder app, set it to automatically save to my cloud account, and slip the phone into my pocket.
GOLDA: One Year Later
The lawyer’s office is a necessary evil in this process, but I would rather be anywhere else. I clutch my folder of documents—bank statements, text messages, the carefully preserved audio recordings—like a shield. Outside the conference room windows, Seattle drizzles gray persistence onto the streets below.
“Mrs. Gannett,” I say into my phone, trying to keep my voice steady, “I understand Tyson needs to be picked up, but I’m in the middle of?—”
“He threw up twice,” the school nurse interrupts. “It’s school policy. He needs to go home.”
I close my eyes briefly. Of course today, the day of the final divorce mediation, the day that took three reschedulings to arrange, the day that stands between me and the possibility of actual freedom.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” I end the call, already calculating childcare options that don’t exist.
My lawyer, Jessica, looks up from her notes. At twice my hourly rate, her time is considerably more valuable than mine. “Problem?”
“Tyson’s sick at school. I need to get him.”
She checks her watch. “Evan and his lawyer will be here in fifteen minutes. We’ve waited two months for this meeting.”
The implicit question hangs in the air: couldn’t someone else handle it?
