When My Husband and Son Begged, I Chose the Hockey King

The knife slipped on the third carrot.

One clean slice across my index finger. A bead of red welled up, then ran. Before I could pull back, a single drop fell into the pot of creamy chicken soup. Eli's favorite. I had been stirring it for two hours.

"No, no, no."

I snapped off the burner and wrapped my finger in a dish towel. The first-aid kit was in the living room cabinet. I pushed through the kitchen door with my hand held high.

Then I heard laughter.

Brielle Okafor, Damon's secretary, was sitting cross-legged on my rug. My six-year-old son was tucked against her side, a game controller in his hands. On the screen, a cartoon race car spun out.

"You crashed again!" Brielle giggled. "You're terrible at this."

"Am not!" Eli shoved her arm, grinning. "Brielle, can I ask you something?"

"Anything, sweetie."

"Can you be my mom?"

The towel around my finger went warm and wet.

Brielle laughed and tapped his nose. "Eli. You can't say things like that."

But she didn't sound like she meant it. She sounded pleased.

"Why not?" Eli tilted his head. "You're pretty. You're fun. You bought me the dinosaur set. Mom never buys me anything cool."

"Your mom loves you."

"She's boring." He rolled his eyes, a perfect copy of his father. "She just sits at home all day. She can't even cook without cutting herself. Dad says she's a klutz."

"Your dad said that?"

"Uh-huh. And she only spends Dad's money anyway. She doesn't have any of her own."

Brielle covered her mouth. Her shoulders shook.

I stepped into the room.

"Eli."

They both turned. Brielle's smile vanished fast, but not fast enough.

"Mrs. Whitlock! I didn't hear you come in."

I ignored her. I crouched down in front of my son.

"Sweetheart, what you just said was hurtful. I want you to apologize."

Eli stared at the bloody towel. His nose wrinkled.

"See?" He jabbed a finger at my hand. "You did it again. You always ruin everything. We were having fun."

"Eli—"

"I'm not saying sorry. It's true." He turned back to the screen. "Brielle, restart the race."

Brielle's eyes flicked to me, then away. She picked up her controller.

I stood there, bleeding onto the carpet I'd scrubbed that morning, while my son pretended I wasn't in the room.

...

Damon came home at seven.

He dropped his briefcase by the door and loosened his tie. Brielle was still there. She hurried to take his coat like she lived here.

"Damon," I said. "We need to talk."

"Can it wait? I've had a long day."

"No. It can't wait."

He sighed and finally looked at me. His gaze dropped to my bandaged finger, then rose again with nothing in it.

"What."

"Eli told Brielle he wants her to be his mother. He called me boring. He said I spend your money like a beggar. He said you call me a klutz." My voice stayed level. I'd practiced it. "I asked him to apologize and he refused. I need you to talk to him."

Brielle twisted her hands together. "Mrs. Whitlock, he's just a kid. He didn't mean—"

"I'm not talking to you."

Damon's jaw locked. "Don't speak to her like that."

"She sat there and laughed, Damon."

"Oh, for God's sake." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen to yourself. You're jealous of a six-year-old and my assistant. Do you know how childish that sounds?"

"I'm asking you to tell our son not to insult his mother."

"He's a kid! Kids say stupid things. You're the adult. Act like it." He walked past me toward the bar cart. "You're always so sensitive. Every little thing turns into a crisis."

"Every little thing?"

"Yes." He poured two fingers of whiskey and turned around. "You want to know the truth, Maren? I already put you in a position you never earned. Look around. This house. Those clothes. Without me, who would want to support a dull woman with no job?"

The room went quiet.

Brielle lowered her eyes to the floor, but the corner of her mouth curved upward.

And I laughed.

Not loud. Just a short, cracked sound that surprised all three of us.

Damon frowned. "What's funny?"

"No job," I repeated.

I was seven months pregnant when I sat up until two in the morning sorting his client files because his first assistant quit without notice. When Eli had a fever of a hundred and four, I didn't sleep for three days, and Damon flew to Denver for a pitch meeting. When his company was nothing but a desk and a dream, I emptied my savings account, every dollar from my design work, to cover six months of office rent.

He never paid it back. I never asked.

"You're right," I said. "I don't have a job. I used to. I gave it up for you."

"Nobody forced you."

"No. Nobody did."

I lifted my left hand. The bandage was stiff with dried blood. Underneath it, my wedding ring caught the light. I twisted it. It stuck at the knuckle, then slid free.

I set it on the glass coffee table. It made a tiny click.

Damon's eyebrows rose. "What is that supposed to be?"

"I want a divorce."

Brielle's head snapped up.

Damon just looked at me. Then he took a long sip of whiskey.

"Sure you do."

"I mean it."

"Fine. Go cool off." He waved the glass toward the stairs. "Take a walk. Call your sister. Come back when you're done being dramatic and finish dinner. Eli's hungry."

"The soup's ruined," I said. "I bled in it."

I went upstairs.

It took me twelve minutes to pack. One suitcase. A few sweaters, my laptop, my mother's old sketchbook, the folder with my birth certificate and passport. Seven years of my life, and almost none of it was worth taking.

When I came down, Eli was on the couch next to Brielle. He saw the suitcase. His eyes widened for half a second.

Then he looked back at the TV.

"Eli," I said softly.

Nothing.

Damon didn't get up. "Don't forget your key. I'm not waiting up."

I left the key on the table next to the ring.

...

It was raining. Hard, cold October rain that soaked through my cardigan before I reached the end of the driveway.

I stopped at the curb. The suitcase wheel was stuck in a crack in the sidewalk.

I tugged it free, and pain shot up my arm. The cut on my finger had split open again. Blood ran pink down my wrist, thinned by the rain.

I turned around.

The front door was shut. The porch light was off. Through the big front window, I could see the blue flicker of the TV and three shapes on the couch.

Nobody came after me.

My son didn't call out for his mom.

I pulled out my phone with shaking, wet fingers and scrolled to a number I hadn't dialed in seven years. A name I'd promised Damon I would never contact again.

It rang twice.

Then a deep voice answered, rough with surprise.

"Maren? Is that really you?"