Chapter 6
My mom arrived at 4 a.m. the next day.
She drove straight through from Florida, only stopping once for gas and coffee.
I let her in, and she dropped her bags, pulled me into a hug so tight I could barely breathe, and cried with me for ten minutes straight.
Then she washed her face, made coffee, and got to work.
“First,” she said, sitting across from me at the kitchen island, sipping her coffee black. “We’re gonna get you the best divorce lawyer in Chicago. The meanest, most ruthless son of a bitch we can find. Michael cheated with your sister. His mother helped him cover it up. That’s not just divorce, that’s emotional distress. We’re gonna take him for everything he’s got.”
“Mom,” I said. “I don’t want his money. I just want Emma. And the house. That’s all.”
“You’re gonna want the money,” she said. “Raising a kid is expensive. And you deserve to be compensated for what he put you through. For what all of them put you through. Now, call your boss. Tell her you’re taking a personal leave. Then we’re gonna make a list of every single thing Michael has lied about. Every text, every late night, every excuse. We’re gonna build a case so strong he won’t dare fight us for custody.”
I did what she said.
I called my boss, who was surprisingly understanding. She told me to take as much time as I needed.
Then we called three lawyers.
We hired the third one.
Her name was Margaret Carter. She was in her sixties, sharp as a tack, with silver hair and red lipstick and a reputation for eating cheating husbands for breakfast.
She sat across from us in her office two days later, flipping through the notes my mom and I had made.
“Fourteen months of an affair with your sister,” she said, looking up. “Mother-in-law orchestrated the whole thing. Sister is three months pregnant with your husband’s child. He’s been lying to you the entire time.”
“Yes,” I said.
She smiled.
It was a scary smile.
“Mrs. Carter,” my mom said. “We want full custody of my granddaughter. We want the house. We want spousal support. We want child support. And we want him to pay for every single thing. Is that possible?”
“More than possible,” Margaret said. “In this state, adultery is a factor in both property division and custody. Add in the fact that the other woman is the client’s sister, that the mother-in-law actively participated in the deception, and that there’s a child on the way from the affair? This is a slam dunk. Michael won’t get joint custody. He’ll be lucky to get supervised visitation. And we’ll get you the house, the car, seventy percent of his assets, and enough child support to make sure Emma never wants for anything.”
I breathed a sigh of relief.
For the first time since that Sunday dinner, I felt like things might actually be okay.
That afternoon, my phone rang.
It was Lila.
I stared at the screen for a long time, then answered.
I put her on speaker so my mom could hear.
“What do you want, Lila?” I said.
She was sobbing so hard I could barely understand her.
“Claire,” she said. “I’m so sorry. For everything. Michael told me it’s over. He said he never loved me, that he only stayed with me because Mom threatened him. I’m gonna have this baby alone. I don’t want anything from you. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. I’ll never bother you again. I’ll never come near Emma again. I swear.”
My mom rolled her eyes.
“Save the tears, Lila,” she said.
“Mom?” Lila said, shocked.
“Yeah, it’s me,” my mom said. “You cheated on your own sister with her husband. You helped Diane lie to her for over a year. You don’t get to be the victim here. You made your bed. Now lie in it.”
Lila cried harder.
“I know,” she said. “I know I’m a terrible person. I just wanted Claire to know I’m sorry.”
“I don’t care if you’re sorry,” I said. “Sorry doesn’t give me back the last year of my life. Sorry doesn’t fix my family. Sorry doesn’t make it okay that you betrayed me. Don’t ever call me again. Don’t text me. Don’t email me. If you need anything, you talk to my lawyer. Do you understand?”
I hung up.
My mom squeezed my hand.
“Good for you, baby,” she said.
Three hours later, there was a knock on the door.
Michael was standing on the porch.
He was holding a manila envelope.
His face was hard. Nothing like the crying, apologetic man who’d left the house a week before.
“Michael,” I said, crossing my arms. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come back.”
He held up the envelope.
“I came to give you these,” he said. “And to tell you that if you want a fight, you’ve got one. I’m not gonna let you take Emma away from me. I’m not gonna let you take everything I’ve worked for.”
I stared at him.
“Are you serious?” I said. “After everything you did?”
“I made a mistake,” he said. “But I’m still Emma’s father. I have rights. And I have proof that you’re not fit to have full custody of her.”
He handed me the envelope.
I opened it.
Inside were copies of text messages.
Texts I’d sent to Lila a year and a half ago, when I’d been struggling with postpartum anxiety after Emma got sick with pneumonia.
I’m so tired.
I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
Sometimes I just want to get in my car and drive away and never come back.
I stared at the papers, my hands shaking.
I’d sent those texts to Lila when I was at my lowest.
When I’d thought I was going to lose Emma.
When I’d needed my sister more than anything.
And she’d saved them.
She’d given them to Michael.
To use against me.
“You’re a monster,” I whispered.
Michael didn’t flinch.
“Those texts prove you’re emotionally unstable,” he said. “My lawyer says if we show them to the judge, we’ll get joint custody at least. Maybe even full. You wanna risk that, Claire? Or do you wanna be reasonable? Let me have Emma every other weekend. Split the house 50/50. We can end this amicably.”
I looked past him, at Lila’s car parked down the street.
She was sitting in the driver’s seat, watching us.
She’d come with him.
She’d given him the texts.
Her apology earlier that day had been a lie.
It had all been a lie.
I looked back at Michael.
“Go to hell,” I said.
I slammed the door in his face.
I locked it, then leaned against it, sliding down to the floor again.
My mom ran into the hallway.
“Claire?” she said, kneeling down next to me. “What happened? What did he give you?”
I handed her the envelope.
She read the texts, and her face turned white with rage.
“That little bitch,” she said. “That goddamned little bitch. I knew her apology was fake. I knew it.”
She stood up, pulling me with her.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re calling Margaret. Right now. We’re not gonna let them get away with this. Not now. Not ever.”
I let her pull me into the kitchen.
I picked up the phone and dialed Margaret’s number.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel sad.
I felt angry.
May you like
Angry enough to fight.
Angry enough to win.
