Chapter Ten
1001 Words
The weekend comes by quicker than I anticipated.
I pack Mia’s bag Friday morning while she eats breakfast downstairs with my mother. Clothes for two days, her toothbrush, the small stuffed rabbit she refuses to sleep without. I fold everything neatly, again and again just to keep my mind and hands occupied.
My mother stands in the doorway. “I can take her if it’s too much for you.”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. I can take her,” I say.
She nods wordlessly then leaves the room.
The house looks the same.
I don’t know if I expected it to look different from when we left. I gently park at the curb and get out to help Mia but she’s already unbuckled before I’ve opened her door. I take her bag out of the back and crouch down to her level. She impatiently shifts her weight from foot to foot, her eyes already on the house.
“Please be good,” I say.
“I know, mommy.”
“And call me before bed?”
“Everyday, I know.”
I hug her tightly before she wriggles away and walks to the door. I stand by the car and watch her go.
The front door opens before she reaches it and Isabelle steps out, her arms wide open for a hug which Mia instantly runs into. She pulls away, now noticing me, her one hand rests lightly on her stomach as she waves at me with the other.
I turn back and get into the car, sitting there for a moment with both hands on the wheel. The conversation from the bathroom comes back to me again.
‘What about the child?
Handle one thing at a time.’
I’ve been turning that over for weeks now. Trying to decide what they meant. Whether the child was Mia or the pregnancy they were already planning. Whether I was right to worry or whether I was doing what Grant always accused me of. Catastrophizing.
The image of Isabelle’s hand on her stomach flashes my mind. I begin pulling out of the driveway.
I spend Saturday looking at accommodation near Whitmore. Student housing, sublets, short term rentals. I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and a coffee that has gone cold and I go through every option.
The options are either too expensive, already taken, or looks good in the photos until I read the reviews. By evening I’m back to square one.
Sunday is much lighter and quieter.
I sketch a little in the morning, trying to familiarize myself with the process. Mom makes lunch while dad helps her out, as Mia isn’t home to make him play with her.
My phone buzzes at four thirty with a text from Grant.
I’ll drop her off in an hour.
I type back okay and put my phone face down.
Mia comes through the front door at half past five with her bag and by the look on her face, she had a great time. I’m glad for it, genuinely glad, because whatever I feel about Grant has nothing to do with her right to love her father.
She drops her bag at the door and kicks off her shoes and finds me in the kitchen.
“Did you eat?” I ask.
“Yes.” She climbs onto a stool at the island. “Isabelle made pasta.”
“Did you like it?”
“It was okay.” She smiles. “But not like grandma’s.”
I nod okay. “Go wash your hands.”
She doesn’t move immediately and I can tell she’s got something on her mind.
“Mommy.”
“Mm.”
“Are you pregnant?”
I look up from the counter, surprised. “No. Why?”
She swings her legs. “Daddy said I’m getting three siblings.”
I shift in my seat taking the news in.
“Isabelle is having babies,” she continues, matter of fact. “Three of them at the same time. Daddy says that’s special.” She looks up at me. “Is that special?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s called triplets.”
She mouths the word to herself, smiling widely.
I pick up the cold coffee and set it back down again.
“Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“What’s a divorce?”
The air in the kitchen suddenly becomes stiff.
I turn to look at her properly. She’s watching me with her father’s eyes, waiting patiently for my answer. I come around the island and sit on the stool beside her.
“A divorce,” I start, “is when a mummy and daddy decide they don’t want to be married anymore. So they make it official. They sign papers that say they’re not husband and wife.” She’s quiet now.
“It doesn’t mean anything changes about how much we both love you,” I say. “That part stays exactly the same.”
She looks at her hands in her lap.
“Daddy said you’re getting divorced,” she says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Because you don’t want to be married anymore?”
I take a slow breath. “Yes.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then her face crumples as she slides off the stool.
“Mia—”
“It’s your fault.” Her voice comes out tiny, already breaking. “Because you left daddy alone and came here.” She’s crying now.
“It’s your fault.”
She turns and runs out of the kitchen. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, then the door slam.
I sit quietly, processing everything that just happened.
She isn’t wrong. At least not from where she’s standing. She only knows what she saw, her mother leaving with a suitcase, her mother choosing her grandparents’ house over her father. That’s the whole story as far as she’s concerned and I can’t take it from her.
I can’t even argue with it.
- Writer
