I should burn it, but instead I tossed it back into the box and flipped through the address book, stopping on his father’s contact information.
Early on in our relationship I’d promised not to contact the man Lyle had called emotionally abusive. As I stood in my closet now, my hands shook with the temptation to break that promise. I didn’t, though. Loyalty matters, even when the chips are down, so I put the box back on the shelf exactly as Lyle had placed it.
Angrily I flirted with the idea of having my own affair, maybe with Doug Silver, the hot dentist. The confident way he often smiled at me and touched my shoulder suggested he found me attractive. But rashness was Erin’s style, not mine, so I focused on my daughter. Her needs ranked above all else.
And the embarrassing truth was that I loved my husband. He hadn’t said he no longer loved me. He hadn’t asked for a divorce. He’d admitted to the affair and asked for time. Given those facts, I could stomach the punch to the gut and forgive him—for our daughter and for myself. I was Lyle’s home. It wouldn’t take him long to realize what he risked losing for an infatuation.
Until I was certain of next steps, the less anyone in town knew, the better. And family? Well, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t turn to Erin. She’d never liked Lyle—the nicest thing she could ever say about him was that he was attractive. I’d rather swallow sour milk than accept the idea that she might’ve been right about him.
I dreaded Mom’s reaction to the affair. I wouldn’t tell her yet. I needed time to process all this and talk to Lyle.
I waddled to the bathroom to splash cool water on my face, my stomach cramping, my arms dangling lifelessly at my sides. It’d be pointless to crawl into bed, though, because closing my eyes would lead straight to images of Ebba laughing in her tight, short dress. Did Lyle’s former coworkers know about them? If so, they must consider me an idiot—and maybe they weren’t wrong. An irritating inner voice accused me of willful ignorance.
Lyle’s snappishness these past few months now took on new meaning. My skin crawled when thinking about our recent sex life. I’d attributed the drop-off to my growing belly. But the suspicion that, when we had made love, he’d been picturing her ripped through me like my best Shun knife.
On top of everything was the tone of the note—his decisions, his options—so certain that I’d be patient and obedient, awaiting his decision while hoping he’d choose our family over her . . .
I hated that he knew me so well when I obviously didn’t know him at all. I hated that deep down I wanted him to return, beg for mercy, and tell me he could never love someone else more than he loved me. God, I hated Lyle right now, but I still loved him.
How could all these feelings coexist?
Muffin restlessly kicked, distending my abdomen. I dabbed a tear. This man I’d thought would be a model father might actually be a terrible parent.
Like his own.
Another reason not to call Mr. Foster. Grilling Lyle’s father wouldn’t change my current situation, and Muffin didn’t need an emotionally crippled grandfather complicating her life.
To think I’d been excited about the potential of what Lyle’s trip to Florida could mean for our future, clueless that he’d been there “nailing down” more than a deal.
I pounded my fists on the marble vanity top with a pained yelp that echoed off the cold surfaces of my bathroom.
Thank God Erin was away this weekend—I’d have more time before facing her. My inability to confide in my sister was a constant source of frustration and regret. Kevin had been nearly three years older than me, so by the time I could keep up with him, he’d preferred his bike, baseball bat, and buddy Tim Hartman to my company. When Erin was born, it was as if my parents had handed me a live baby doll. My mother let me help dress her and rock her and read to her. She was adorable, with her round eyes and wild brown hair. But as soon as she’d graduated from pull-ups, she resisted playing the domestic kinds of make-believe games I enjoyed and, like Kevin, blazed her own crazy path, leaving me to my Barbies and books. To this day, I couldn’t count on her to listen to or understand me.
I went back to the kitchen to force myself to eat something. Through the kitchen window, I could see the spot in the yard where I’d suggested we install a swing set mock me. I’d been planning for our growing family while Lyle had been planning an escape. I drank straight from the faucet to soothe my raw throat.
When I tossed the used paper towel, I noticed our Foster family memory jar tucked in the corner, with several little scrolls of paper gathered at the bottom. Things like the memory of making love by the fireplace on our first night in this house. The first dinner party we’d hosted here for my family. The day we’d learned Muffin’s gender.
Forever kinds of memories.
Traditions were foundational glue for families—or so I’d believed before Lyle had me questioning absolutely everything.
Friday I’d called off work sick and stayed in bed all day. Today my stomach still burned as I drove to my mother’s to meet with her and Kevin. I’d been vague when requesting this get-together because I’d hoped to reach Lyle and make this meeting unnecessary. Those prayers went unanswered.
I killed the car’s engine in my mother’s driveway. Like clockwork, Kevin pulled in before I exited my car. We shared a penchant for punctuality and planners and order. We’d also inherited Mom’s blonde hair and blue eyes. Kevin got our dad’s larger build and no-nonsense manner, whereas I was petite and always more accommodating than my siblings.
Life as a young partner at the Ballard Spade law firm—not to mention the demands at home from Marcy and their eighteen-month-old, Billy—consumed much of his time. But while we no longer gathered regularly for Sunday dinners, Kevin had been in touch more since Dad died, taking up the mantle of the man in our family.
He gave me a quick kiss hello. Exhaustion had carved deep lines in his face. “Sis.”
“Thanks for coming, Kev. I know you’re super busy.”
“You sounded kind of desperate. What’s going on? Is it Mom?” He started toward the front door.
I kept up with him despite my waddling. “Yes and no. It’s complicated.” My cheeks burned. “Let’s go inside first.”
Kevin smiled at my abdomen and squeezed my shoulder. “You look great. I feel bad for Lyle, though. In another two months you’ll be miserable. He’ll be scrambling to keep you comfortable until the baby pops out.”
Tears swam to my eyes without warning.
Kevin was already rapping on the front door before opening it without waiting for Mom to answer, but his face fell at my expression. “Uh-oh. Is this the hormones, or something else?”
“Probably both.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, calling out, “Mom, we’re here.”
A noise in the kitchen caught our attention, so we walked through the living and dining rooms, stepping around a laundry basket on the way. Dirty coffee cups lay abandoned on various tables; a days-old National Enquirer draped a chair—a highly unusual state of affairs.
We found Mom in the kitchen, feverishly working to cover something up. A faint whiff of burned plastic hung in the air.
“Hey, Mom.” Kevin opened his arms for a hug.