Chapter 1 - What Was He Supposed To Notice?
Vanessa saw the matching dresses and changed before I had time to understand why.
One second, she was carrying the skillet from the kitchen.
The next, she flipped it.
Chicken, sauce, and vegetables splattered across Mia’s plate and the front of her pale-blue floral dress.
Mia screamed.
Not from heat—the food was warm.
From shock.
She was four.
She looked down at the sauce dripping from the dress she had spent all morning twirling in, then up at her aunt.
Vanessa’s face was twisted with something much stronger than irritation.
“Take off. You don’t get to pretend she belongs with Sophie.”
I came through the dining-room door fast enough to nearly slip.
“Mia.”
She ran straight into me.
I wrapped both arms around her.
Vanessa still had the skillet.
I ripped it from her hand and shoved it onto the far end of the table.
“She’s four, Vanessa!”
Sophie sat frozen across from us.
Six years old.
Same pale-blue dress.
Same tiny white flowers.
Her face had gone completely blank.
That bothered me almost as much as Mia crying.
Children who are surprised usually react.
Sophie looked like she had been waiting for something bad to happen.
Vanessa reached toward Mia’s stained dress.
I knocked her hand away.
“Don’t touch her.”
Then Vanessa looked toward the hallway.
Fear.
Real fear.
Not embarrassment.
Not guilt.
Fear.
That was when our mother walked into the dining room.
Eleanor stopped in the doorway.
She looked first at Mia.
Then Sophie.
Side by side in the matching dresses.
Her face drained.
“I told you never to let their father see them dressed alike.”
Everything inside me went still.
Vanessa turned toward her.
“Mom.”
Too late.
I looked from Sophie to Mia.
“What exactly is he supposed to notice?”
Nobody answered.
The only sounds were Mia’s crying and the low hiss of the dining-room vent.
Then Sophie did something I had seen Mia do a thousand times.
When she became frightened, she tucked her lower lip in and rubbed the side of her left thumb with her index finger.
Mia was doing the same thing against my shoulder.
That meant nothing by itself.
Children copy each other.
Families share habits.
But Eleanor had not said cousins.
She had said their father.
Singular.
I looked at Vanessa.
“Who were you talking about?”
“She misspoke.”
Eleanor said it too quickly.
“I meant fathers.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Rachel—”
“Who?”
Vanessa pushed back from the table.
“I’m taking Sophie home.”
“No.”
Her eyes flashed.
“You don’t get to tell me—”
“You just threw food at my child because she was wearing the same dress as yours.”
“I didn’t throw it at her.”
I stared at the sauce covering Mia’s chest.
“Do you want to try that sentence again?”
Vanessa stopped.
Sophie whispered:
“Mommy?”
The anger vanished from Vanessa’s face.
She turned toward her daughter.
“I’m sorry, baby.”
Then Sophie looked at me.
“Is Uncle Grant still coming?”
My stomach tightened.
Grant.
My husband.
Mia’s father.
He had been at a construction site outside Cleveland all morning and was supposed to join us for dessert.
“Yes.”
Vanessa moved instantly.
“We’re leaving.”
Sophie looked confused.
“But Grandma said we couldn’t wear these when Uncle Grant comes.”
Nobody breathed.
I looked at Eleanor.
Sophie continued, completely unaware of what she had just done.
“She told Mommy not to put us next to each other in pictures when he’s here.”
Vanessa closed her eyes.
I heard a car outside.
Then the familiar chirp of Grant locking it.
Mia lifted her head from my shoulder.
“Daddy.”
The front-door lock turned.
May you like
And for the first time in eight years of marriage, I remembered the one question Grant had asked me after our separation that I had refused to let him answer.
Do you really want to know who it was?
