Chapter 4
I drove home from the diner alone.
Luke had said he needed to drop Vanessa at her apartment, but his truck had turned toward our neighborhood.
I told myself he might have forgotten something at the house.
I expected to walk into a quiet house, take off my boots, and finally wash the smell of concession-stand popcorn out of my hair.
When I unlocked the front door, I heard laughter coming from the second floor.
The hall light was off, but Luke had left the lamp beside the stairs burning.
I knew the house well enough to cross it without either one.
The laughter belonged there.
That was what stopped me: it did not sound like an intrusion.
It sounded as if the rooms had already learned a new arrangement.
I set my keys on the console table and walked up the stairs.
The door to Emma's bedroom was open.
Vanessa was standing in the middle of the room.
She was looking at the bulletin board above Emma's desk, her fingers gently touching the edge of a photograph pinned to the cork.
In the picture, ten-year-old Emma was clinging to my back.
We were both covered head-to-toe in dried mud, laughing hysterically at the finish line of the middle school's charity obstacle run.
The shoes from that day had taken two wash cycles and a toothbrush to clean.
Emma had fallen asleep in the car, and I had carried her inside with dried mud cracking off both of us onto the hall rug.
Vanessa could see the photograph.
She could not see the weight of a sleeping ten-year-old against my shoulder or the brown water circling the laundry sink after midnight.
I stepped into the doorway.
Vanessa heard me and turned around, dropping her hand.
"You two have a lot of pictures together," she said quietly.
"We have a lot of years together," I replied.
Vanessa looked back at the muddy photograph.
She didn't argue.
She didn't try to minimize it.
"I can see that," she said.
Behind me, the floorboards creaked.
Luke walked down the hallway carrying two mugs of hot tea.
He handed one to Vanessa.
"Emma wanted to show Vanessa her room," Luke said, taking a sip from his own mug. "I didn't think it needed a family meeting."
"You didn't think bringing your ex-wife into our house required telling your wife?" I asked.
"Not when Emma was the one who asked," Luke said easily.
The silence exposed the distance between us.
He was doing it again—hiding his decisions behind our daughter so I couldn't object without looking like the bad guy.
Emma walked out of her bathroom.
She had washed her face and changed into sweatpants, holding a glossy trifold brochure in her hand.
"Hey," Emma said, looking at Vanessa.
She held up the brochure.
It was from the state university.
"Vanessa wants to see the campus with me next Saturday. They're doing an open house for the art department."
For two months, I had been planning that trip.
The folder on my laptop held seventeen emails and a color-coded packing list.
None of it was glamorous; it was parking instructions, meal hours, medication, and the questions Emma forgot whenever she got nervous.
I had mapped out the driving route.
I had booked a hotel room with two queen beds.
I had spent hours emailing the head of the photography department to secure a one-on-one portfolio review for Emma.
I had even called three restaurants near the campus to verify their peanut cross-contamination protocols.
"Do you want her to go?" I asked Emma.
Emma looked down at the brochure. "I want her to know where I might live."
It was a fair answer.
I couldn't fault her for that.
"We can all go," I said. "I can upgrade the hotel reservation to a suite."
Vanessa didn't say no.
She looked at Luke.
"Maybe this one should be for Emma and Vanessa," Luke said gently.
I looked at him. "Why?"
"Because you already know everything about her," Luke said, offering a reasonable, reassuring smile. "Vanessa is trying to catch up. They need some time alone."
He was using my twelve years of labor as the exact reason why I should be left behind.
Before I could answer, Emma looked at me, twisting the corner of the brochure.
"Dad said it might be okay if I stayed with Vanessa this weekend," Emma said.
I looked at Luke.
He didn't look away.
He had already agreed.
He had given permission before I even walked into the house.
I looked back at my daughter. "You can stay because you want to. Not because your father already answered for me."
Emma let out a small breath of relief. "Thanks, Mom. I thought I might stay through Sunday. Maybe longer, if it goes okay."
"Whenever you're ready to come home, you call me," I said.
I turned around and walked down the hallway.
As I passed Emma's room again to head toward the master bedroom, I glanced inside.
A brand-new, navy blue hard-shell carry-on stood open on her bed.
The store tags were still attached to the handle.
Inside were packing cubes, a travel-size laundry bag, and the clear toiletry pouch Emma had shown me online the week before.
Luke did not shop that way.
Someone had made a list, and he had followed it before I knew there was a list.
Luke hadn't answered Emma's question too quickly.
He had answered it before she ever asked me.