Page 43 of Letting Go

My spine straightens, just a fraction. Like my body knows danger before my brain can catch up.

“There’s an acquaintance of mine… retiring next year. Good man. Runs an investment firm upstate. He’s looking for someone to mentor, someone to take over eventually. I think Michael could be that person.”

My mouth goes dry.

No. No, no, no. This isn’t happening.

He keeps going, oblivious. “I know he’s let me down before,” he says, with this wistful, painful sort of grace that makes me want to scream into the tablecloth. “But lately… I don’t know. I’ve had this feeling. Like maybe he’s ready to step up. Be the man I always hoped he’d be.”

And wow, okay. There it is. The final straw, the emotional Molotov. Because now he’s not just proudof Michael, he’s hopeful. He’s giving him a legacy. Handing him a future. Screw being nice.

I press my napkin to my lips like I’m dabbing delicately at nothing, but really, I’m just trying to keep myself from blurting out Your son was balls-deep in my teenage sister, and that’s how he’s “stepping up.”

Instead, I smile. Numb. Hollow. Ready to shatter.

“That’s… amazing,” I say. “Really.”

And maybe it’s the way his face lights up, so proud and trusting and wildly, tragically misinformed. Or maybe it’s just the pressure of holding everything in so tightly for so long. But something inside me snaps. Quietly. Like a string pulled too taut for too long finally giving out with a soft little ping.

My throat closes. My chest tightens. And suddenly I’m blinking way too fast.

Shit.

I press my napkin harder to my lips, try to pass it off like I’m delicately emotional, maybe a little overwhelmed by his faith in us, as if I’m not about to cry all over my butter lettuce.

“You, okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed in that kind, concerned, dad way that just undoes me even more.

And I nod, stupidly. Because of course I do. Because even now, some part of me is still trying to be the good daughter-in-law. The unproblematic one. Thewoman who makes nice and keeps quiet and doesn’t cry in public.

But the tears are coming anyway. Hot and sudden and completely unwelcome.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out, laughing a little, because isn’t that what women are trained to do when we’re crumbling? Laugh through it so we don’t seem crazy. “God, I don’t even know why I’m crying. I think I’m just, tired. It’s been a lot lately.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

He reaches across the table, pats my hand like I’m a child who’s skinned her knee instead of a woman whose entire life went up in flames.

And that’s when it happens, when my voice finally breaks, for real this time.

“Judge…” I whisper, and now I’m not sure what part is acting and what’s just pain with mascara. “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this. I really didn’t.”

He freezes. His hand stills on mine. The shift in energy is instant, a cold gust under the warmth.

“But Michael and I… it’s over. We’re getting a divorce.”

There. It’s out. And my stomach flips, not with relief, but with a sick sort of anticipation. Because I haven’t even told him why yet. I haven’t dropped the real bomb.

And he’s just staring now. Quiet. Shocked.

“I came home and found him,” I say, swallowing hard, “in bed with someone else.”

The judge stiffens, but he doesn’t speak. Not yet. He’s still doing that blinking, stunned thing, like he’s just heard a foreign language and is waiting for subtitles.

Finally, he says, “I’m so sorry. That’s… I didn’t know. He never said-”

“Of course he didn’t,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to be. My throat is tight. “Because he still wants your respect. Your approval.”

He leans back, processing. “I understand this is painful, but people-couples-go through things. They slip. There’s counselling. It doesn’t have to mean-”

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