Chapter 8 - The Clean Slate
Caleb didn't argue. He couldn't. For the first time in his pampered, entitled life, he realized there was no escape hatch, no clever technicality, and no one coming to bail him out of the consequences of his actions. He packed two suitcases under Arthur’s watchful gaze.
Before he walked out the door, he stopped in front of me in the entryway. His posture was completely broken, his shoulders slumped, his eyes red and swollen.
""Tessa,"" he whispered, looking at the floor. ""I know saying sorry doesn't fix what I did to you. I was selfish, and I was terrified of being a father. I took it out on you because... because you were the only person who couldn't fight back.""
I looked at him, holding six-week-old Elodie securely against my chest. Her little fingers were curled around the strap of my clean sundress, her soft breaths warm against my neck.
""You're right, Caleb,"" I said, my voice steady, calm, and free of anger. ""I couldn't fight back then because I was recovering from delivering our baby. But I am not helpless anymore. You have a long road ahead of you if you ever want to be a father to this little girl. Go to Trenton. Do the work. Learn what an honest day of hard labor feels like. And maybe, in six months, we can talk about supervised visitation.""
Caleb swallowed hard, nodded slowly, and walked out the door. The heavy deadbolt clicked shut behind him, sealing the old chapter of our lives forever.
The following morning, I woke up to golden sunlight streaming through the nursery windows. Arthur had arranged for a wonderful, compassionate postpartum doula named Maria to assist me during the days. Maria arrived with fresh fruit, warm herbal tea, and a gentle smile that instantly put my lingering anxieties at ease.
""Good morning, Tessa,"" Maria said softly, taking Elodie from my arms so I could stretch. ""Go on into the master bathroom. I drew you a warm bath with eucalyptus and peppermint, and I've got breakfast ready whenever you come out.""
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I walked into the master bathroom. The first thing I did was take Caleb’s plastic digital kitchen timer off the wall. I walked into the kitchen, threw it into the trash can under the sink, and pressed the pedal down to close the lid.
Then I stepped back into the bathroom, turned the shower dial all the way to hot, and watched the steam billow toward the ceiling. I stood under the cascading warmth for twenty glorious, uncounted minutes. I conditioned my hair. I shaved my legs. I closed my eyes and simply breathed. For the first time since becoming a mother, the water did not stop.
