Chapter 4
The next day was our eighth wedding anniversary.
When I woke, a bouquet of white roses sat on the nightstand.
The card read, "To the best mother our son could ever have. Happy anniversary."
Once, he would have written, "To my wife."
Now, it seemed motherhood was the only part of me he could still see.
Grant entered the bedroom carrying breakfast and bent to kiss me.
"Seven thirty tonight at Linden," he said. "I reserved our usual table."
It was where he had proposed.
After we married, we returned there every year.
The year before, after our second failed round of IVF, I had cried at that table and said perhaps we would never have a child.
Grant had held my hand and promised that when we finally succeeded, he would bring me back for the best anniversary dinner of my life.
Now, that baby had been growing inside me for thirty-six weeks.
"I'll be home at six to pick you up." Grant glanced at the time. "I won't keep you waiting tonight."
I nodded.
I did not remind him that there would never be another anniversary for us.
That afternoon, the divorce papers arrived from my attorney.
I signed them immediately.
The apartment was rented. My identification, medical records, and hospital bag were packed. Emily would pick me up at nine that night.
Until then, all I had to do was remove what belonged to me from the house.
At 5:40 p.m., I was upstairs closing my last suitcase when Grant sent me a voice message.
I could hear silverware in the background, followed by Brooke's brief laugh.
"An investor came into town unexpectedly, and I can't get away. I already canceled the reservation at Linden. Don't get upset over something this small. I'll make it up to you this weekend."
I listened to the message, then finished closing the suitcase.
Ten minutes later, the manager at Linden called me.
"Mrs. Miller, Mr. Miller has arrived. The pastry chef wanted to know whether we should wait until you get here to bring out the anniversary cake."
I gripped the phone but said nothing.
"He's at the table you reserve every year," she added. "About what time should we expect you?"
Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Linden's lakeside terrace.
Grant was there.
The woman sitting across from him was not me.
Brooke wore a black dress with the coat Grant had been wearing that morning draped over her shoulders.
There were no files on the table. No investor.
Only a bottle of wine and a six-inch white cake.
The chocolate plaque on top read, "Eight years, and still us."
Grant had asked the pastry chef to write those words three years ago. He said we would put the same message on every anniversary cake until we were too old to walk into the restaurant together.
Now Brooke was using her fork to scoop the word us from the frosting.
"You left Hannah at home alone. What if she comes here?" Brooke asked.
"I told her I canceled the reservation." Grant poured her more wine. "She'll think I'm with a client."
"It is your anniversary."
Grant leaned back as though the subject itself exhausted him.
"I've spent nine months listening to talk about kicks, appointments, hospital bags, and cribs," he said. "Tonight, I just want one meal where I don't have to talk about the baby."
He said it as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world.
As though no matter whom he held before coming home, returning to me at the end of the night meant he had never made a choice.
Brooke smiled.
Grant cupped her face in his hand and kissed her.
The song playing inside the restaurant was the one from our wedding.
Eight years ago, at that same table, he had kissed me and promised that no matter how life changed us, he would always remember I was Hannah before I was anything else.
Now I was finally carrying the child he wanted, and he had used that child to erase me.
I took one photograph through the glass, then turned away.
Back home, I placed the signed divorce papers in the center of the dining table.
I set my wedding ring on top of the anniversary card, covering the words best mother.
I left no letter and offered no explanation.
Grant had always complained that I thought too much, asked too many questions, and explained too much.
This time, I left him only an answer.
At nine, Emily pulled into the driveway exactly as promised.
I took one suitcase, my hospital bag, and the stack of ultrasound pictures.
The crib, the rocking chair, and the moon-shaped lamp remained in the nursery, as if the room were still waiting for a whole family to arrive.
As we drove out of the neighborhood, Grant sent me a text.
"The meeting isn't over. Don't wait up. I'll bring home the anniversary cake."
I remembered the frosting on Brooke's fork and did not reply.
My new apartment was only eight minutes from the hospital.
As Emily made the bed for me, the baby monitor app alerted me to a sound detected at home.
I opened the feed.
Grant walked into the nursery carrying Linden's white cake box.
He called my name twice. Then he noticed that the hospital bag was no longer against the wall.
The cake box slipped from his hand and landed on the carpet.
He hurried out of frame.
Downstairs, a chair scraped back. Then my phone began ringing again and again.
A few minutes later, Grant reappeared on the screen. He clutched the divorce papers in his right hand and my wedding ring in his left.
He stared at the monitor's camera as though suddenly remembering that I could see him too.
"Hannah, answer your phone," he said. "Come home now, and I'll pretend you didn't walk out tonight."