My Son Called His Mistress “Mom” in Court

The front door slammed shut, and the brownstone went completely quiet.

I pulled out a wooden chair, scraping its legs across the slick floor, and sat down.

Grease pooled near my boots. Red cranberry sauce dripped down the white cabinets like thick paint. The shattered fabric of my handmade tree lay in the corner, its beads scattered across the linoleum.

I didn't cry. My eyes were completely dry.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. My hands didn't shake. I opened my messages and texted Gwendolyn Daniels: *I need a divorce lawyer. Tonight.*

Her reply came back in ten seconds. *My office. Tomorrow morning at eight. What happened?*

I didn't answer.

I stood up and walked down the hallway to the closet. I pushed past winter coats and three dusty cardboard boxes. In the very back, leaning against the wall, was a flat wooden frame.

I pulled it out.

A thick layer of gray dust covered the glass. Underneath was my senior rehabilitation therapist certification from Columbia University. I had graduated top of my class. I had locked it away ten years ago because Lochlan said he needed me. He told me he couldn't survive without my hands to steady him.

I lifted my sweater sleeve and wiped the glass clean.

I carried the frame into the kitchen and set it on the counter. Right next to it lay the white shreds of the medical reports I had torn apart.

***

The day after Christmas was gray and freezing.

I walked into Gwen’s Midtown law office at eight sharp. The air smelled of paper and black coffee.

Gwen stood up from behind her desk. She had a box of tissues waiting. She looked at my pale face, bracing herself for tears.

I didn't cry. I just sat down in the leather chair. My left shoulder pulled tightly with every breath.

"You're walking stiff, Celia," Gwen said, narrowing her eyes. "Did he hit you?"

"No," I said. "He didn't hit me."

"Then why can't you turn your neck?"

I stayed quiet for a second. Then I unbuttoned my cardigan and took it off. I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt.

Gwen stopped moving.

My arms were a map of the last ten years. Purple bruises faded into yellow ones. There was a pale, thick burn scar on my right wrist from catching a cast-iron skillet Lochlan had "dropped." There were deep knots along my shoulders where I had thrown my body against doorframes to keep him from falling.

"He never had sensory issues," I said, my voice flat. "He never lost his balance. He just let me catch him."

Gwen’s face turned white. Then her jaw clenched tight.

She didn't speak. She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a digital camera, and turned it on.

*Click.*

*Click.*

The flash was cold and harsh. She took photos of my arms, my wrists, and the dark bruise on my collarbone. She did it in total silence.

When she finished, she printed the photos on glossy paper. She slid them into a thick manila folder, wrote *BURKE v. BURKE* across the tab in bold ink, and snapped it shut.

"Get your coat," Gwen said, grabbing her keys. "We're taking a drive."

***

Gwen drove us straight to Queens.

My mother, Catherine, lived in a small brick apartment building that always smelled of lemon wax.

When she opened the door, she frowned at me. "Celia? Lochlan called me yesterday. He was crying. He told me you slapped him over a ruined dinner! How could you do that? You know he has sensory overload. A good wife—"

Gwen stepped right past her into the small kitchen. "Sit down, Catherine."

"Excuse me?" my mother said, bristling. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Sit down," Gwen repeated. Her voice cut like a razor.

My mother stopped and sat down at the table.

Gwen opened her leather bag. She took the glossy photos and laid them across the floral tablecloth, one by one.

*Slap. Slap. Slap.*

"Look at them," Gwen said.

My mother looked down. Her eyes grew wide. "What... what are these?"

"This is ten years of your son-in-law's fake illness," Gwen said. Every word was deliberate. "This burn? He dropped boiling soup because he didn't want to carry it. Celia caught the pot. This bruise on her shoulder? He threw his two-hundred-pound weight into her so she'd hit the granite island. He was never sick, Catherine. He practiced his stumbles. He laughed about it on Christmas Eve, and then he left to sleep with Theo's preschool teacher."

My mother’s hands began to tremble. She reached out and touched the photo of my scarred wrist. Her throat hitched.

"Celia..." she choked out, looking up at me. "You told me you were so tired... and I told you to be patient..."

I didn't answer her. I just stood by the window and looked out at the gray sky.

Later that night, my mother didn't call Lochlan back.

Instead, she walked over to her living room bookshelf. She pulled down every single marriage self-help book she had bought me over the last ten years. Books about being a gentle wife. Books about having patience.

She carried the heavy stack to the fireplace.

One by one, she ripped the covers off and threw them into the flames.