Chapter 87

That night, I sit down with my daughters and once more try to explain about divorce.

“Sometimes mommies and daddies just fall out of love with each other. It’s not your fault. Your dad and I both love you very much, and we are going to do our best to not make you sad, okay?”

Violet cries again. Iris is a bit stronger this time, though I assure her she doesn’t have to be.

“This is a big change for all of us,” I tell her. “It’s okay to be sad.”

“I want to be tough like you, Mommy,” Iris says.

My whole heart breaks and I hug both of the girls.

This ordeal would go better, I suspect, if Garnar and I could form a united front, both reassuring the girls at once. But his ego has him sitting in his study, utterly ignoring us while I speak to the girls on the couch.

“We might have to move,” I tell them. “But I will make sure to get a big house that we like, okay? Somewhere close so you can go to the same school and see your dad whenever you want.”

“Okay,” they say with shaky bottom lips and watery eyes.

I hug them again. “It’s all going to be okay so long as we are together.”

I stay with the girls, watching television and talking with them as best as I can, until it is time for bed. Then I walk over to the study where Garnar has been hiding/brooding all night and knock on the door.

“Would you like to say goodnight to your daughters? They are about to go to bed,” I call through the door.

There’s silence for a long moment. Then the door opens and Garnar steps out. He doesn’t look at me as he moves around me. When he reaches the couch our daughters are sitting on, he says, “Hello, Iris. Violet. Are you ready for bed?”

They nod.

“Did your mom talk to you a lot tonight?”

They nod.

“Did she tell you why all this is happening?”

They look at each other.

“Garnar,” I say in warning.

“It’s your Mom’s fault,” Garnar says, his soft tone suddenly vicious and cruel. “She hates me, and she wants to keep you away from me.”

Iris and Violet turn their doe eyes on me.

“It’s not like that,” I’m quick to say. “Garnar, stop.”

“She’s hates our family,” Garnar continues.

“Garnar!” I say louder, trying to stop him. Realizing he won’t stop, I turn to the girls. “Go upstairs and get your pajamas on, girls.”

Violet’s crying again.

“No, honey,” I say, starting toward her. She flinches away from me. My entire heart shatters.

“Why don’t you go get ready for bed, Esther,” Garnar says with cruelty. “Leave my daughters to me.”

It’s too much. It’s all too much. Tears well in my own eyes.

“Iris…” I say.

“Just go, Mom,” Iris says. “We don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

Chest aching, I look around at the scene, and at my girls.

“It’s not like he says,” I tell them, but they move to hug their dad. Garnar kneels down to return their hugs.

Suddenly, I feel like an intruder in my own home, with my own family.

Not knowing what else to do, I go into my room, sit on the edge of my bed, and cry.

The next night, the girls are set to stay over at a friend’s house, so I make plans to see Cynthia. I still feel winded, remembering what happened with the girls. Garnar seems determined to poison them against me, and I don’t know how to fix it.

I bury myself in work, afraid that if I sit in my feelings too long, I might lose my mind. I feel out of my mind in grief. I’ve tried so hard to fight for my girls and keep them beside me, now I might just lose them anyway because of Garnar’s hatred.

When I get to Cynthia’s I tell her all about it. She pours me a glass of wine, but I’m afraid to drink it. Usually, I’m a happy drunk, but with this much sadness festering within me, I’m worried the alcohol will lower my inhibitions enough that I’ll just start crying.

“I wish there was something more I could do,” Cynthia says.

“There’s nothing anyone can do,” I say.

“We need to get you out of that house,” Cynthia says.

“I know,” I say. “But I’m worried what Garnar might tell the girls when I’m not around.”

“Can it be worse than what he says when you are? At least, this way, when you have them, you can try to deprogram whatever brainwashing Garnar is trying for.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Will you help me look?”

“Of course!”

I have my laptop in my bag. When I take it out, the anonymous letter comes with it. After last night, I’d almost forgotten about it. I must have thrown it in the bag to forget it.

“What’s that?” Cynthia plucks it off the counter. When she opens it and starts to read, her eyes go wide. “Is this what I think it is?”

“It is,” I say. I’ve already told her about the letter, though I haven’t told her who I know now has written it.

“So mysterious,” she says, reading it.

“Very Miles,” I say.

She lowers the letter at once. “No!”

“Yes,” I tell her. It’s a nice distraction, talking about something other than how my kids now hate me.

“God, this man has a soft spot for you.” Cynthia tilts her head to one side. “Why don’t you go see him?”

“What?”

“I’m sure he can make you feel better about life, at least for a little while.” Cynthia waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Cynthia. He is not a call boy, remember? He’s a congressman. He’s running for president, for god’s sake.”

“And he has the hots for you. You are down in the dumps, let him pick you up. At the very least, you can call him.”

Calling him doesn’t sound too terrible.

Cynthia dips her head toward her spare room. “I promise I won’t bother you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I say. “I’m just going to call him.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll go watch some TV and turn it up really loudly,” Cynthia says, “So you can talk about whatever you want.”

She’s wild but I love her.

As she heads for the living room, I grab my phone and go to the spare room. This is silly anyway. He’s probably too busy to take my call. The man is running for president. Even if he has a soft spot for me, like Cynthia hints, he still way too busy to talk to me whenever I want.

That doesn’t start my heart from racing as I plop on the edge of the bed and unlock my phone. Dialing his number, I wait for him to answer.

I don’t have to wait long.

“Esther,” Miles says smoothly. He sounds alone, wherever he is, with a comfortable quiet behind him. No echoes that might make me think he’s in his office, or loud bass that would tell me he’s at the club. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Oh, right. I guess I need some reason to call, other than I just wanted to hear his voice.

Then I remember.

“I know you wrote the letter.”