Chapter 4

At eight o'clock Monday morning, I was sitting in the waiting room at my high-risk OB clinic.

Reed had promised the night before that he would come.

At 8:07, he texted me.

Maren's car is still at the repair shop. I'm taking her to pick up the twins' ski gear first. I'll come get you when I'm done.

I stared at the message for a long time.

Then I silenced my phone.

In the exam room, my doctor reviewed my blood pressure log and increased the frequency of my follow-up appointments.

She told me that if the numbers continued to rise, I would need closer monitoring later in the pregnancy and might have to deliver early.

Then she asked whether my husband was still my emergency contact.

"No."

I crossed out Reed's name and wrote down my sister's number instead.

That was the first decision I made that day.

The second was to meet with the family lawyer I had contacted over the weekend.

I brought the hotel reservation, the Kids' Future Fund statements, the smart-lock access history, and records of the prenatal appointments Reed had missed.

The lawyer walked me through the joint property, our accounts, and the medical arrangements I could make for the rest of my pregnancy.

Before noon, I canceled my automatic transfer into the Kids' Future Fund and opened a separate account for my paychecks.

I did not touch any money that was already jointly held.

That afternoon, my sister came over to help me pack.

I did not empty the house.

I left the twins' rooms alone and did not take any furniture Reed and I had bought together.

I packed only my documents, clothes, medical records, work laptop, and the baby things I had paid for myself.

A row of maternity clothes still had tags hanging from them.

My sister came in from the kitchen holding the blue-lidded container.

"Do you want this too?"

I looked at the label, wrinkled from the water.

Reed had written my name on it.

He had also written NO SALT.

It was not that he had known nothing about what I needed.

He had simply never thought it mattered enough to learn the rest.

"No," I said.

At 3:40 p.m., we carried the final box to the car.

I left my lawyer's letter and a draft separation agreement on the dining table.

I did not leave a personal note.

The draft covered temporary separate residences, full financial disclosure, and the expenses we would need to discuss going forward.

We were still legally married.

But I could no longer stay in that house waiting for Reed to remember that I was also someone who deserved to be cared for.

Before I left, I opened the smart-lock app and removed myself from the household.

The system asked me twice to confirm that I wanted to give up permanent access to the house.

Maren had received that same access with a single approval from Reed.

I had to confirm twice to leave my own home.

By the time my sister drove us out of the neighborhood, Reed finally texted to ask what I wanted for dinner.

He probably thought the message he had sent that morning, the one I never answered, had passed like all the others.

I did not reply.

He called at 5:21.

Again at 5:24.

The third time, I answered.

I heard paper being picked up on the other end.

"Camille, what are these papers on the table?"

"Exactly what they look like."

"Where are you? Why are all your clothes gone?"

I was sitting against the headboard in my sister's guest room, one hand resting over my belly as the baby gave a small kick.

Reed stopped breathing for a second.

"You moved out?"