Page 45 of Clever Little Thing

I took a deep breath. “Because you say incredibly obvious things as if they’re profound insights. Because you’ve told me private stuff about your clients that I don’t think they’d want you to share. Worst of all, because Stella’s problem doesn’t fit into any boxes, instead of trying to solve it, you’re taking the easy way out, which is to act likeI’mthe problem. Or my mother is.” I paused. “Or her mother.”

I felt pleased that it took Wesley a minute to compose himself. When he recovered, he nodded and said, “Now we’re being honest.”

I stood up and opened the door to the waiting room, where Stella scribbled intently with a crayon. “Stella, we’re leaving.”

Wesley couldn’t help me work out what was wrong with her. But as I marched Stella down the stairs, I figured out a way: the diary. It had to contain her secret thoughts and fears. It would explain why she’d changed so much.

•••

That evening, while Stella was downstairs crocheting, I stole into her room. I’d promised Pete not to read the diary, but Stella’s well-being hung in the balance. It sat right there on her desk.Almost like shewantedme to read it. I opened it at random, partway through. The room seemed to tilt, and the diary fell to the floor.

Then I heard the front door opening and Pete coming up the stairs, two at a time. I put the diary back on her desk, but I didn’t have time to get out of her room.

“Just doing a sweep for dirty cups and plates,” I told him as I met him in the doorway.

“She didn’t have any?” Pete said.

I shook my head, but he was looking over my shoulder: that morning’s porridge bowl was on the floor by her bed, next to a half-full juice glass.

His face darkened. “Were you reading her diary? Is that why you were in here?”

I looked at the floor. Pete was livid. “We talked about this. We agreed we wouldn’t read it even if it was open. She needs her privacy.”

“From me?”

He stepped into the corridor. “Let’s go into our room so we can be more private.” I followed him, and he continued, “I saw Stella downstairs. I asked her what you did this afternoon, and she said you took her to see someone called Wesley. I’m guessing that is Wesley Bachman from my Google Doc? We agreed therapy is not a good idea for her right now.”

“Youagreed. I didn’t,” I said. “I’m sorry I went behind your back. I was planning to tell you.” At the right time. “I thought if I went, Wesley would confirm that she needs help.”

“And did he?”

I was silent, and Pete took a deep breath and blew slowly out through his mouth. “I’m worried about you, obsessing about Stella. Can you not just take a break? You need time for yourself. Do some more coloring, you’re good at that.”

He hadn’t even meant this as an insult, and that hurt more. “I’m also good at being a mother,” I said.

“Maybe I should call my mom, since you’re still feeling sick this far on in the pregnancy. You need to feel better and start eating. She could come and stay for a while.”

“I don’t want another person in the house right now.” Judging me and how I parented Stella. Pete’s mom, Dianne, would surely say that Stella was “looking great.” Then she’d lay a hand on my arm and invite me to do some chakra-opening breathing with her.

Pete flexed his hand, made it a fist, flexed it again. “This would be so much easier if we still had Irina.”

“I told you why I got rid of her.”

“But you didn’t even bother to ask me what I think. You make your parenting decisions unilaterally.”

“Because I’m the one who’s with Stella all the time! If you want to have an equal share in the decision-making, you should have an equal share in the childcare.”

Pete took my shoulders. “Then let me do more. The school’s closed tomorrow—that teacher training thing. I’ll take her for the whole day. You go and see Cherie, or something. Go to yoga.”

I thought about how I’d tried to convince Wesley by focusing on her changed smell. Of course, Wesley was in no position to judge this, but Pete was there when she was born. He’d smelled the caramelizing sugar, the honeysuckle.

“What about her smell?” I said. “You must have noticed the change. How do you explain that?”

Pete scratched fiercely at his beard. “Hersmell?” He sounded confused, almost afraid, but what did he have to be afraid of? That made me even more desperate to convince him that I was right. But the more I tried to sound calm and rational, the more I sounded like I was protesting too much. I thought for a moment.

“Look, I know you don’t have my pregnant sense of smell, but it’s so obvious. I can smell it in here right now.” Lamb and chlorine and something sweetish, not in a good way. “Can’t you smell it?” I pleaded.

Pete inhaled doubtfully, and I said, “Remember how she smelled, that first night? So wondrous. I lay awake all night breathing it in.”

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