Page 42 of Letting Go

The one the judge, Michael’s father, gifted me for our one-year wedding anniversary. His idea of a “family heirloom,” even though it was definitely bought off a Fifth Avenue shelf. It’s delicate, deceptively so, and heavier than it looks. Guilt disguised as sentiment. A very sparkly "we see you as one of us now" curse. And yes, I put it on. Not because I’m sentimental. Because subtle, strategic pettiness is my new love language.

I catch my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at me doesn’t look wrecked. She looks calibrated. Calm. Ready to smile politely while casually dropping a nuclear bomb in the middle of a white-tablecloth lunch.

And maybe, maybe if I look heartbroken enough, just raw and soft around the edges, he’ll feel something. The judge. Maybe he’ll get pissed, act like a real father. Not a judge. Not a calculated man in robes and retirement watches. But someone who’d actually throw a punch for me.

Which is insane, I know. He’s not my father. My actual father? Wouldn’t throw a punch if someone clocked me in the face. He’d just sigh dramatically and ask how I managed to invite chaos again. Like when I quit my job and they made it a referendum on their parenting. Classic.

Michael’s mom is no better. She writes books, not novels, God forbid anything entertaining. No, she’s a licensed therapist with three degrees and zero maternal instincts. Her whole career is built on understanding other people’s emotions while actively avoiding her own son’s. She lives in L.A., runs a private practice, and sends him Christmas cards signed “Warmly.” I used to feel bad for him.

Now? Not so much. He turned out exactly like both of them. Distant. Self-serving. Brilliant at saying the right thing and doing the absolute wrong one.

But today isn’t about Michael. Not really. Today is about me. Me, and the judge, and the war I plan to fight with weaponized innocence and just the right amount of shimmer.

Let him take one look at me and feel ashamed.

Let him squirm.

Let him choose sides.

Chapter 16

The hostess leads me to a corner booth like I’m some kind of celebrity widow. White linen tablecloth, quiet ambiance, enough distance from the other patrons that I can unravel without an audience. The judge is already there. Of course he is. Early. Upright. Polished in a dark navy blazer and a confidence that’s been marinating for sixty-some years.

He stands when he sees me, all warm eyes and courtroom charm.

“There’s my girl,” he says, opening his arms like we’re in a Hallmark movie and not living in my own personal horror show.

I let him hug me. Let him hold on a beat too long. Let him think nothing’s changed, like I haven’t been gutted and stitched back together with coffee-fuelled rage and waterproof mascara.

“You look lovely,” he says as we sit. “Marriage suits you.”

I almost choke on my water. Right. Marriage.

I smile, small and rehearsed, and look down at my bracelet like it’s a character witness.

He orders his usual. I order whatever sounds bland enough to go down without chewing. There’s a weirdcomfort in how normal it all is. In how completely, devastatingly unaware he is.

“Tell me how you’ve been,” he says, folding his hands like this is a deposition and not the most twisted family reunion of all time. “How’s Michael? Work? Life?”

Oh, we’re doing this.

I take a deep breath and channel the version of myself that still gets invited to Christmas.

“Work’s... in transition,” I say, which is not a lie. It’s just not the part of the truth that matters right now. “And Michael’s… well. He’s been keeping busy.”

His smile softens, that paternal kind of pride you only get from men who think they’ve raised decent sons. “That’s good to hear. I always knew the two of you were built to last. You’ve brought out the best in him.”

I almost laugh. Like, bark-laugh, ugly and sharp. Because if by best he means mid-thrust in bed with my teenage sister, then yes. Michael is absolutely thriving.

But I don’t say that. I can’t. I sip my water and smile like a woman who doesn’t want to burn this entire place to the ground.

“I’ve always appreciated how kind you’ve been to me,” I say instead. What the hell? Michael betrayed me, why the hell am I protecting him?

I make it through the starter. Barely. A few dry bites of salad, an overlong monologue about local real estate, and my smile- which I’m fairly certain is now being held up by trauma and cheek muscle memory alone.

I keep telling myself: Tell him. Say something devastating but tasteful. Be elegant. Be… Lorna-adjacent.

But then he sets down his fork, leans forward a little, and says, “You know, I’ve been thinking about bringing Michael into something new.”

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