Chapter 1
My fork was poised over a piece of tender beef bourguignon when James Carter said, "Let's get a divorce."
He set his cutlery down, his voice as unremarkable as a comment about working.
The rich, wine-laced sauce coated the meat as I took the bite.
Chewing slowly, I swallowed before answering, my face betraying nothing, "Alright."
He stared, his fork suspended in mid-air.
The silence stretched—five seconds, then another five—broken only by the sound of my continued meal.
That beef bourguignon had turned out perfectly. The meat, having simmered for a good hour and a half, was fall-apart tender, the sauce a deep, glossy reduction of red wine and herbs.
He didn't touch his food again.
Finishing the last food on my plate, I stood to clear the table.
As I passed his chair, his hand shot out, fingers closing around my wrist.
"Claire, did you hear me? I'm saying we should get divorced," James said.
My gaze dropped to his grip, then lifted to meet his eyes. "I heard you. I said alright."
His hand fell away.
In the kitchen, the roar of the faucet filled the space, washing over the quiet and drowning out everything else.
Even the faint, fluttering kick beneath my palm as I rested a hand on my stomach.
*****
When I turned off the faucet, the kitchen fell silent.
I dried my hands and fished the phone from my apron pocket.
A message from Susan Lane still glowed on the screen, sent just three minutes earlier: [The business license is approved. Pick it up tomorrow.]
I shot back a quick "Got it" and slipped my phone back into my pocket.
James was leaning against the doorframe of the dining room, arms crossed.
"Just like that? Aren't you even going to ask why?" he said.
I took off my apron, folded it neatly, and placed it beside the stove.
He'd given me this apron in our first year of marriage. It was cream-colored cotton-linen, with a little daisy embroidered in the corner.
Three years now, and the embroidery thread was starting to fray.
"I'm not going to ask," I said.
His jaw tightened in a mix of surprise and confusion.
I had known James for six years, and I knew that look all too well.
He was waiting for the tears, the outburst, for me to clutch his sleeve and demand, "Is there someone else in your heart? Did your mother say something again?"
Then he could storm out, leaving behind his usual line. "You're always so unreasonable."
We'd acted out that scene for three years. I knew every line by heart.
But today, I was done playing.
"So... should we go to the courthouse on Monday?" James said, testing the waters.
"Alright. Morning or afternoon?" I replied.
"Morning. Nine o'clock," he said.
"Alright. I'll set an alarm," I said.
Walking past him, I headed to the bedroom.
It hardly felt like "our" bedroom anymore.
After that big fight three months ago, he'd moved into the study.
Since then, I'd slept in the master bedroom alone. In this 1500-square-foot home, we each claimed half, separated by a hallway and three months of silence.
Closing the door behind me, I locked it and pulled open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.
Beneath a stack of clothes lay a sealed document folder.
Inside were a newly signed apartment lease, a bank card with three years' worth of savings, our family registration record, and today's ultrasound report.
On the grainy image, a small form curled gently, limbs clearly defined.
Thirty-two weeks. Eight months.
My hand rested on my belly, now a firm curve beneath the loose house dress.
James never would've picked up on any of it anyway because he hadn't so much as looked at me properly, not once, in three months.