Chapter 2 - The Drawer I Had Been Afraid to Open
I did not take Isla upstairs because I wanted to hide her.
I took her upstairs because I needed ten minutes without anyone telling me how I was supposed to feel.
She sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing her pale yellow dress, her fingers pressed against the cheek Philippa had slapped.
“Mommy?”
I turned around.
“Did Daddy think Grandma was right?”
The question nearly broke me.
I crouched in front of her.
“No.”
Isla stared at me.
“You're sure?”
I swallowed.
“Your daddy was wrong today. Very wrong. But that doesn't mean you're not loved.”
She looked down at her dress.
“My birthday is ruined.”
“No,” I said.
“It is.”
“The cake is ruined.”
She nodded.
“The party isn't.”
She looked at me skeptically.
Then I heard the front door slam downstairs.
Alexander.
I kissed Isla's forehead.
“Stay here.”
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my husband was standing in the foyer.
Philippa was gone.
“You let her leave?”
His question was so absurd that I almost laughed.
“Your mother slapped our daughter.”
“She lost control.”
“She deliberately slapped a seven-year-old.”
“She was upset.”
“And you defended her.”
Alexander rubbed his forehead.
“I said something stupid.”
“You said something revealing.”
His eyes hardened.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I've spent seven years telling myself you were trapped between your mother and your wife.”
I stepped closer.
“Today I realized you weren't trapped.”
He stared at me.
“You chose.”
Silence.
Then his phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
His face changed.
“Who is it?”
“Lawyer.”
“What lawyer?”
“My mother's.”
My stomach tightened.
Alexander answered.
“Hello?”
He listened.
Then his face went pale.
“What?”
I watched him carefully.
“What document?”
Another pause.
Then he looked at me.
“Mom says your daughter isn't entitled to anything.”
My blood went cold.
“Anything from what?”
Alexander ended the call.
I walked past him.
“I'm going upstairs.”
“Where?”
“To the old filing cabinet.”
His expression changed again.
That was when I knew I had remembered the right thing.
The cabinet had belonged to Alexander's grandfather, Charles Hartwell.
It had sat untouched in our guest room for years.
I had almost forgotten about the envelope Charles gave me six weeks before he died.
Almost.
I unlocked the cabinet.
Behind old tax records and insurance policies was a brown envelope.
My name was written across it.
Not Alexander's.
Mine.
I opened it.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Claire,
If Philippa ever tells you that Isla has no place in this family, open the documents behind this letter. Do not trust anyone who tells you they are missing.
My hands began shaking.
There were three documents underneath.
A trust agreement.
A bank statement.
And a photocopy of a signature.
The signature belonged to Charles Hartwell.
But beneath it was something that made my heart stop.
A second signature.
Mine.
Except I had never signed that document.
I heard footsteps behind me.
Alexander stood in the doorway.
“What did you find?”
I held up the paper.
“Something your mother desperately hoped I would never find.”
His eyes dropped to the signature.
He stopped breathing.
“What is that?”
“You tell me.”
“I've never seen it.”
“Then why does it contain my signature?”
He stared at the page.
And for the first time in seven years, my husband looked genuinely afraid.
Not angry.
May you like
Not defensive.
Afraid.
