Desperation makes you foolish. The next morning, I packed that single garbage bag, strapped my bewildered children into the minivan, and drove to the house that had birthed me. I pulled into the asphalt driveway I knew by heart, marched up the concrete steps, and knocked.
My father answered. Bowen had never been a cruel man, but as he stood in the threshold, his features contorted into a mask of complex, rehearsed rigidity. He looked at me, then at the three small faces peering out from behind my legs. It was agonizingly clear he had been briefed. He was a soldier executing orders.
“Your mother and I discussed this extensively,” he stated, refusing to meet my eyes. “We are in agreement. It is not a healthy idea for you to stay here.”
“Dad.” The word cracked in my throat, sounding painfully small. “I have literally nowhere else to go. The lawyer said forcing a sale on the marital home could take eight months. I can’t sleep there with him.”
“You could go back,” Bowen suggested, his jaw tight. “Swallow your pride. Try again.”
Sarin was standing directly behind my right leg. Nine years old. Absorbing every devastating syllable in total silence. I felt her small, cold hand slip into mine, and I gripped it like a lifeline.
“I am not going back to a man who lied to me for a year,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I am your daughter. I am asking my father for help.”
He stared at me for an eternity. His gaze flicked over my head, landing on the kids, before hardening into stone. He took a half-step backward into the foyer.
“I am sorry, Coralie. We simply cannot facilitate this right now.”
