He suggested we speak again before Saturday.
He wanted to understand what had been happening, but he wasn’t interested in barging into a birthday party and frightening his stepson.
I agreed.
Then he asked whether the invitation was still open.
I looked at the cake.
The balloons.
The flowers I’d bought that morning.
“Yes,” I said.
“But please come after Noah has had his cake. We can speak privately with Ethan and Vanessa before the evening ends.”
David hesitated.
Then he agreed.
When the call ended, I stood alone in the kitchen.
My hands were trembling.
I could have confronted Ethan immediately.
I nearly did.
But I knew exactly what would happen.
He’d tell me I misunderstood.
He’d say Vanessa was going through a difficult time.
He’d remind me that Noah needed his parents to get along.
And somehow, by the end of the argument, I’d be the one apologizing.
So I finished decorating the cake.
Then I set the dining room table.
And on Saturday evening, when Ethan gave Vanessa the chair beside him and told me to act like a good wife, I quietly moved to the far end.
I didn’t know everything yet.
But I was finished accepting answers that didn’t make sense.
There were thirteen people at the birthday dinner, including Noah.
I’d planned a warm family evening rather than an elaborate party.
Ethan’s favorite roast chicken.
Rosemary potatoes.
A salad with the dressing his mother used to make.
