Chapter 4 - Sophia’s Version
Sophia came to Daniel’s house on Thursday.
Emma had returned to school that morning, pale but cheerful, carrying a water bottle Daniel had covered in crooked rabbit stickers.
I was alone when the doorbell rang.
Through the glass, I saw a cream coat, perfect hair, and a bakery box tied with string.
I opened the door only halfway.
“Claire,” Sophia said. “We should talk.”
“No.”
Her smile faltered.
“I brought something for Emma.”
“She doesn’t need anything from you.”
“I understand you’re upset.”
“Then you understand why this visit is inappropriate.”
She glanced toward the street.
“Could we please do this inside?”
I stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind me.
For the first time since I had known her, Sophia looked inconvenienced.
“I never intended to cause problems in your marriage.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Vincent and I have history.”
“So do Vincent and his daughter.”
Her fingers tightened around the bakery string.
“He worries about me.”
“He should have called a plumber.”
The pleasant expression vanished.
“You make everything sound ugly.”
“I’m describing a leaking ceiling.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she set the box on the porch railing.
“He told me you two had been unhappy for a long time.”
I felt a sharp, humiliating pain.
Not because I believed her completely.
Because I knew enough about Vincent to recognize the possibility.
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“That you were distant. That everything revolved around Emma. That he felt like a guest in his own home.”
I thought about the dinners I had kept warm. The school photographs I sent him. The invitations he ignored.
“He had plenty of opportunities to participate.”
Sophia looked down.
“I didn’t know she went to the hospital until afterward.”
“When afterward?”
She hesitated.
“Thursday morning.”
“The morning after?”
“Yes.”
That was a lie.
I knew because Vincent had told me, through the locked door, that Sophia understood Emma was sick.
I did not challenge her.
Instead, I asked, “Why are you here?”
Her eyes rose to mine.
“Because he won’t answer my calls.”
There it was.
Not concern for Emma.
Not remorse.
A door had closed somewhere, and Sophia had come looking for the woman she assumed held the key.
“I can’t help you.”
“He’s blaming me.”
“He needs to examine himself.”
“You could tell him I never asked him to neglect his family.”
“I’m sure you can explain your intentions.”
I opened the front door.
Sophia caught my sleeve.
“Claire, wait.”
I looked at her hand until she released me.
“You should know something,” she said. “He came to my apartment after he found the bedroom locked. But he didn’t stay all night.”
I went still.
“What do you mean?”
“He left around four.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.”
She searched my face, perhaps hoping the information would trouble me enough to keep the conversation going.
It did trouble me.
But not in the way she expected.
Vincent had still had time to come back.
He had still chosen not to.
“Goodbye, Sophia.”
I left the bakery box outside.
That evening, Julia called.
Vincent had retained counsel. His attorney wanted a private meeting to discuss temporary parenting time and living arrangements.
“Also,” Julia said, “there’s something you should prepare for.”
“What?”
“He’s asking whether you’ll consider marriage counseling.”
I watched Emma through Daniel’s kitchen window. She was helping my brother refill a bird feeder, holding the seed scoop with tremendous seriousness.
“I’ll consider a conversation,” I said. “That isn’t a promise about the marriage.”
“I’ll make that clear.”
After we hung up, I found a message from Vincent.
Sophia says she came by. I’m sorry. I told her not to contact you again.
I typed a response, deleted it, then tried again.
Where did you go after you left her apartment that night?
His reply took twelve minutes.
My office.
Why?
Another long pause.
Because I was angry with you.
I read those seven words twice.
Then a second message appeared.
I knew Emma had been to the hospital. I should have come back. I have no excuse.
I set down the phone.
May you like
For the first time, his honesty hurt more than his explanations.
At least now, I knew exactly what we were standing in.
