He had planned the exit while I was still in labor.
I did not go to that house. I went to my parents’ estate instead, through the iron gate and the long gravel drive lined with old oak trees that had outlasted three generations of Hargroves and would outlast three more.
My mother met me at the door. She did not say I told you so. She simply took Samuel from my arms and walked inside, and that silence was more comfort than anything she could have spoken.
I set up in my father’s study, which smelled of old paper and lemon oil, with three bassinets arranged near the window and a crib monitor on the corner of the mahogany desk.
His litigation attorney, a compact woman named Diana Shea, arrived at nine in the morning. She wore no jewelry and carried a single black folder.
She opened it.
“Your husband’s lawyer contacted us,” she said. “They’re asking you to sign the original documents.”
“I know.”
“They’ve added a clause surrendering any claim to financial support during the custody dispute.”
