Catherine Delaine.

Lumia's violin teacher.

Her dark hair was spread across the white pillow. Her red lipstick was smeared at one corner. She was still smiling.

Three months ago, David had come home with a brochure in his hand.

"Lumia should learn an instrument," he'd said. "Violin. There's a new teacher at his school. Juilliard graduate. Gentle, patient, really elegant. Perfect for kids."

I had been thrilled. I had thanked him for thinking of it.

Two weeks later, I wrapped a silk scarf in gold paper for her birthday. I cooked lamb for her. She sat at my table and told me I was "the warmest mother she'd ever met."

And I'd believed her.

Inside the room, she rolled onto her side and traced a finger down David's chest.

"Do you remember the night before I left for Vienna?"

"Every second of it," David said. "You told me music came first."

"I was twenty-two. I was stupid."

"You broke me, Cathy." His voice went soft in a way I'd never heard. "I met Giselle a month later. She was easy. She was there. She wanted a family, and I wanted to stop thinking about you."

Easy.

I pressed my back to the wall.

"And now?" Catherine asked.

"Now you're home. And the plan's working." He laughed quietly. "Every Tuesday and Thursday, one hour alone with him. He talks about you all weekend. He asked me yesterday if you could come to his birthday."

"He's such a sweet boy." She sighed. "He already lets me hug him goodbye."

"Give it a few more months. He'll want you more than her."

I didn't hear the rest.

I was already in the elevator, staring at my own face in the brass doors. My lips were white.

---

The house was dark when I got back.

I didn't go to bed. I went to Lumia's playroom and pulled his sketchbook from the shelf. I don't know why. Maybe some part of me already knew.

Dinosaurs. Rockets. A purple dog.

Then, on the last page, a family.

A tall man in a tie. A little boy with a violin. And a woman with long dark hair and a red dress, holding the boy's hand.

Above them, in his wobbly crayon letters:

*MY FAMILY.*

I wasn't in it.

I sat on the playroom floor until the sky turned gray. I didn't cry. I just held the page in my lap and stared at the woman in red until her face stopped looking like crayon and started looking like a promise.

---

The next afternoon, I drove to Westbrook Academy.

I told myself I was only picking up my son.

The music room door was open. Lumia was sitting on Catherine's lap. Her arms were looped around his middle, and her chin was resting on top of his head.

"Again," he begged. "Play the twinkle song again."

"Only if you say the magic words."

He giggled. "Please, Mommy Cathy."

The floor seemed to tilt.

"What did you just call her?"

They both looked up.

Lumia's smile slid off his face. Catherine's didn't. She just loosened her arms, slowly, like she had nothing to hide.

"Giselle! You're early."

"Lumia. Come here."

He didn't move. He pressed back against her.

"Lumia." My voice cracked. "Now."

"Hey." Catherine lifted a hand. "Don't yell at him. He didn't do anything wrong."

"Did you teach him that? *Mommy Cathy?*"

"It's just a nickname. The kids are silly." She tilted her head. Her eyes were wide and wet in an instant. "He's a child, Giselle. He likes me. Are you really going to be jealous of that, too?"

"Too?" I took a step closer. "You were in a hotel room with my husband last night."

The music room went dead quiet. Two other parents by the door turned to stare.

Catherine's lower lip shook. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Room twenty-two-fourteen. Red dress. You want me to keep going?"

"Giselle."

David's voice came from behind me.

I turned. He was striding down the hallway in his gray coat, phone still in his hand. Someone had called him. Of course someone had.

"What the hell are you doing?" he said through his teeth.

"Ask her."

"I'm asking *you.* You're screaming in a classroom full of children."

Lumia had started to cry. Big, gulping sobs. David walked straight past me and scooped him up off Catherine's lap.

"Hey, buddy. Hey. It's okay. Daddy's here."

Then he turned to Catherine, and his free hand touched her shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, blinking hard. "I'm fine. I just don't understand why she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you. She's having a bad week." He looked back at me, and his gray eyes were flat and cold. "Isn't that right, Giselle?"

Something in me snapped clean in half.

I crossed the room in three steps and slapped him.

The crack echoed off the music stands. His head turned with it. A red mark bloomed across his cheek.

One of the parents gasped.

"You can stop loving me," I said. My hand was burning. "That's your right. But you have no right to hand my son to another woman."

For a second, David didn't move. Then he turned his face back to me. He didn't touch his cheek. He didn't raise his voice.

"Lower your voice," he said quietly. "You're scaring him."

"*I'm* scaring him?"

"Look at him, Giselle."

I looked.

Lumia was twisting in his father's arms, kicking hard. David set him down. And my son ran.

Not to me.

He planted himself in front of Catherine, spread his small arms wide, and glared up at me with his face red and soaked with tears.

"Bad Mommy!" he screamed. "Why are you being mean to Cathy?"

"Lumia, baby, I'm not..."

"Daddy said you took him away! Daddy said he was supposed to marry *her!* She was supposed to be my mommy, not you!"

The words hit harder than any slap.

Behind him, Catherine rested her hands on his tiny shoulders. Gently. Like they belonged there.

Over his head, her eyes met mine.

And for just one second, she wasn't crying at all.

David bent down and picked up the violin case from the floor. He handed it to Catherine, not to me.

"We'll talk at home," he said.

I stood in the middle of that music room with my palm still stinging and finally understood.

He hadn't just cheated on me.

He had sat our son down, night after night, and taught him how to leave me.

And as the three of them walked out the door together, Lumia's hand tucked inside hers, I heard Catherine whisper something to David that made my blood run cold.

"Did you tell her about the papers yet?"

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?"