things to allow this future contact to happen easily. I expect that if she calls, she will ask about you. I plan to help her get in touch if that’s her wish.
Tia
Juliette stared at the child, gripping the photos with icy fingers. She placed her other hand on her chest, trying to slow her rapid, shallow breaths.
Did he know he had this child, this daughter? Tia had written “This is our daughter” as though it were a given fact. We. Have. A. Daughter.
Had he seen her, spoken to her? Had they had any contact since Nathan’s confession? Please, God, please let the answers be no.
“Mom!” Max called down the stairs. “Mom!” he repeated when she didn’t respond.
Juliette shoved the letter and pictures back in the envelope and stuck it into her bathrobe pocket. “I’m right here, Max, you don’t have to scream.” Her words sounded muted, despite the fact that she’d yelled, just as she’d told Max not to scream.
Max’s head appeared over the stair railing of the second floor. “Where are my blue sweats? Did you remember that I have practice?”
Juliette twisted her wedding ring and willed the pounding in her chest to subside. “Left side of the closet, hanging beside your denim jacket.”
He grunted his version of thanks.
“And shower before you get dressed,” Juliette nagged on autopilot. She straightened the mail until it was piled in size order, trying to think about anything other than the envelope pressing against her hip.
She stumbled into the kitchen.
The pictures, the resemblance to Max, to Nathan—for a moment, she thought she’d choke on her rising fury. Memories of her husband’s betrayal rushed through her until there seemed to be room only for anger. A daughter? How could her husband have not told her?
Tia’s letter didn’t say, “You have a child.” Or “I never told you I was pregnant, but . . . ”
Yet she hadn’t known that they’d moved.
What did he know? What did they know together? What else hadthey hidden from her? Memories of being left out, of Nathan and that woman as a couple while she floundered in the dark, threatened to drown her.
Not many miles away, Nathan’s daughter was waking, or having breakfast, or maybe getting ready for preschool. A child of his that wasn’t hers.
Surely her eyes would give away her distress. Blinking, squeezing back tears, she stumbled toward the table and sat on the hard kitchen chair. Once sitting, she dug her nails hard into her thighs. She had to calm down somehow, or the children, Nathan, would read her in a minute.
Breathe deep.
What could be more of a betrayal than having a child with another woman?
Dissociate.
Not telling her: didn’t that say his loyalty was more to that woman than to her?
Think about this later. Figure this out later.
She needed to find out more of the facts before opening herself to lies from Nathan.
Juliette was well schooled in keeping her own counsel. Growing up with a mother whose version of “Good morning” was “You are not wearing that ugly outfit to school” gifted her with an enduring ability to maintain a calm front. Her mother thrived on knocking self-pity and crying out of Juliette, so early on she learned techniques for preventing tears.
Soon Lucas, always first, would stomp down the stairs, ready to eat a ridiculously large amount of whatever she offered. He combusted calories impossibly fast. He’d grown taller than his father this year. Nathan pretended not to notice, but Juliette saw how often her husband looked as though he were stretching toward greater height when next to Lucas.
Screw the waffles. She pulled eight eggs from the fridge. Four for Lucas, two for Nathan—a burst of rage took her breath away—and two for Max.
Focus on food.
Max was built husky like Nathan, with a similarly sluggish engine.
Don’t think about the letter.
Juliette’s metabolism had once burned fast. No longer. Now she wrestled her lust for bubbling pans of macaroni and cheese
Tia
Juliette stared at the child, gripping the photos with icy fingers. She placed her other hand on her chest, trying to slow her rapid, shallow breaths.
Did he know he had this child, this daughter? Tia had written “This is our daughter” as though it were a given fact. We. Have. A. Daughter.
Had he seen her, spoken to her? Had they had any contact since Nathan’s confession? Please, God, please let the answers be no.
“Mom!” Max called down the stairs. “Mom!” he repeated when she didn’t respond.
Juliette shoved the letter and pictures back in the envelope and stuck it into her bathrobe pocket. “I’m right here, Max, you don’t have to scream.” Her words sounded muted, despite the fact that she’d yelled, just as she’d told Max not to scream.
Max’s head appeared over the stair railing of the second floor. “Where are my blue sweats? Did you remember that I have practice?”
Juliette twisted her wedding ring and willed the pounding in her chest to subside. “Left side of the closet, hanging beside your denim jacket.”
He grunted his version of thanks.
“And shower before you get dressed,” Juliette nagged on autopilot. She straightened the mail until it was piled in size order, trying to think about anything other than the envelope pressing against her hip.
She stumbled into the kitchen.
The pictures, the resemblance to Max, to Nathan—for a moment, she thought she’d choke on her rising fury. Memories of her husband’s betrayal rushed through her until there seemed to be room only for anger. A daughter? How could her husband have not told her?
Tia’s letter didn’t say, “You have a child.” Or “I never told you I was pregnant, but . . . ”
Yet she hadn’t known that they’d moved.
What did he know? What did they know together? What else hadthey hidden from her? Memories of being left out, of Nathan and that woman as a couple while she floundered in the dark, threatened to drown her.
Not many miles away, Nathan’s daughter was waking, or having breakfast, or maybe getting ready for preschool. A child of his that wasn’t hers.
Surely her eyes would give away her distress. Blinking, squeezing back tears, she stumbled toward the table and sat on the hard kitchen chair. Once sitting, she dug her nails hard into her thighs. She had to calm down somehow, or the children, Nathan, would read her in a minute.
Breathe deep.
What could be more of a betrayal than having a child with another woman?
Dissociate.
Not telling her: didn’t that say his loyalty was more to that woman than to her?
Think about this later. Figure this out later.
She needed to find out more of the facts before opening herself to lies from Nathan.
Juliette was well schooled in keeping her own counsel. Growing up with a mother whose version of “Good morning” was “You are not wearing that ugly outfit to school” gifted her with an enduring ability to maintain a calm front. Her mother thrived on knocking self-pity and crying out of Juliette, so early on she learned techniques for preventing tears.
Soon Lucas, always first, would stomp down the stairs, ready to eat a ridiculously large amount of whatever she offered. He combusted calories impossibly fast. He’d grown taller than his father this year. Nathan pretended not to notice, but Juliette saw how often her husband looked as though he were stretching toward greater height when next to Lucas.
Screw the waffles. She pulled eight eggs from the fridge. Four for Lucas, two for Nathan—a burst of rage took her breath away—and two for Max.
Focus on food.
Max was built husky like Nathan, with a similarly sluggish engine.
Don’t think about the letter.
Juliette’s metabolism had once burned fast. No longer. Now she wrestled her lust for bubbling pans of macaroni and cheese
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