My Son Called Me the Other Woman

I didn't sleep.

I sat at the kitchen island until the coffee went cold, and then I made another pot and let that go cold, too. By six in the morning, I had printed the divorce agreement twice. My hands kept smudging the first copy.

David came downstairs at seven-thirty, buttoning his cuffs. The red mark on his cheek had faded to pink.

I slid the papers across the marble.

"Sit down."

He didn't. He picked them up standing, flipped one page, then another. Fast. Like a menu at a restaurant he didn't care about.

I waited for him to say *I'm sorry.* I waited for *It's not what you think.* I even waited for him to lie.

Instead, his shoulders dropped. He let out a long breath.

And he looked *relieved.*

"Well," he said. "Since you know, it saves me from finding excuses."

My nails dug into my palms. "That's it? Six years, and that's all you've got?"

"What do you want me to say, Giselle? That I'll cry about it?" He tossed the papers onto the counter. "You did me a favor."

"I'm taking Lumia."

He laughed. Not loud. Just one short huff through his nose.

"With what?"

"He's my son."

"He's *our* son. And you haven't had a real job in six years." He leaned on the island, eye level with me now. "No income. No apartment. No health insurance of your own. You think a judge is going to hand a six-year-old to a woman who lives off my credit card?"

"I gave up my job because *you* asked me to."

"And you said yes." He straightened his tie. "That was your choice, not mine."

---

I went upstairs and pulled two suitcases from the closet.

I packed for Lumia first. His dinosaur pajamas. His inhaler. The nightlight shaped like a moon. My mother's house in Connecticut had a spare room. He'd slept there every summer. He loved the swing in her backyard.

I found him in the living room.

He wasn't alone.

Catherine was sitting on my couch with her legs tucked under her, and Lumia was curled against her side, watching cartoons.

My throat closed. "What is she doing in this house?"

"David invited me," Catherine said sweetly. "For breakfast."

I ignored her and knelt down. "Baby, get your shoes. We're going to Grandma's for a while."

Lumia didn't even look at me. He slid off the couch and ducked behind Catherine's legs, clutching the back of her dress.

"No!"

"Lumia..."

"I don't want to go with you!" His face crumpled. "Cathy plays violin with me! She's taking me to Disney! You just make me eat vegetables and do homework all the time!"

"Sweetheart, that's because I love you."

"I don't want you to be my mommy!"

The room went silent except for the cartoon music, bright and stupid in the background.

I thought about the night he had a fever of 104 and I held him in a cold bath at three in the morning, singing so he wouldn't scream. The winter he had croup and I slept sitting up in his doorway for nine days. Every lunchbox. Every bandage. Every *one more story, Mommy.*

The tears came before I could stop them. They ran down my chin and dripped onto my sweater.

I didn't even try to wipe them.

David was leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"You see?" he said. "Even the kid knows who's better suited to be his mother."

"You taught him that."

"I taught him to be honest."

Something moved on the staircase.

Catherine had slipped out of the room. Now she stood halfway up the stairs, one hand on the railing.

She'd changed.

She was wearing my robe. The champagne silk one my mother gave me for my thirtieth birthday. It hung loose off one shoulder, and she'd tied the belt in a lazy knot.

She didn't say a word.

She only smiled.

I stared at that smile, and something inside me went very quiet. Very still.

I stood up.

"Fine."

David's eyebrows lifted. "Fine?"

"I won't fight you for custody. Not right now." My voice sounded strange to me, flat and calm. "I don't want your house. I don't want your stocks. I don't want a cent of anything you earned."

"Then what *do* you want?"

"My things. What I owned before I met you. That's all."

He studied my face like he was waiting for a trick. Then he pulled a folder from his briefcase.

"My lawyer drew this up last week."

*Last week.*

So those were the papers.

I didn't read it. I picked up his pen and signed every line he'd marked with a yellow tab. My signature came out shaky on the first page and steady by the last.

"There," I said. "You're free."

---

I unpacked Lumia's suitcase and left his pajamas folded on his bed.

My own bag held almost nothing. My grandmother's ring. My college diploma. Three sweaters. A box of old sketches from the design firm I used to work for.

Six years, and everything I truly owned fit in one suitcase.

I rolled it down the front walk. The wheels rattled on the stone. I kept my eyes on the gate.

I didn't turn around.

I was almost there when something soft hit the path beside my feet.

I glanced down.

It was a teddy bear. Brown felt, one button eye hanging loose, a patch of blue plaid sewn over its tummy.

I had made it when I was seven months pregnant. Stitched it by hand on the couch every night while David was working late. I'd cried when I finished it because I was so happy.

I looked up.

Lumia was leaning out his bedroom window.

"Take your stuff too!" he yelled. "Cathy said she'll buy me a better one!"

Behind him, a pale silk sleeve rested on the window frame.

I bent and picked up the bear. I brushed the dirt off its ear with my thumb.

"Okay," I said softly. Too softly for him to hear. "Mommy won't bother you anymore."

Then I walked through the gate.

---

By nine that night, it was pouring.

I sat at a bus stop on Route 9 with the suitcase between my knees and the bear inside my coat. My train ticket to Connecticut was forty-two dollars. My wallet had eleven.

I opened my banking app to transfer money from the joint account.

*Access denied.*

I tried again.

Then my phone buzzed with an email from the bank.

*Dear Mrs. Marlow, per the request of the primary account holder, the joint account ending in 4471 has been frozen effective immediately.*

I read it three times.

He hadn't even waited until morning.

I laughed. Out loud, alone, in the rain. A woman across the street pulled her umbrella lower and hurried away.

The water soaked through my shoes. My fingers were going numb around the phone.

Headlights swept across the bus shelter.

A black Bentley rolled to a stop at the curb, rain sheeting off its hood. The engine purred, low and patient.

The rear window slid down.

The man inside was in a charcoal coat, his dark hair neatly cut, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were cool, almost cold.

Until they landed on me.

Then something in them changed.

"Giselle?" His voice was deep and careful, like he was afraid I'd vanish. "It's William. Do you remember me?"