His eyes were wet and furious, and I saw, with a strange clarity, that I had never once seen him sorry.
“This is your fault,” he said.
“You couldn’t just wait at home like we agreed.”
“You had to make a show.”
“Fine.”
“Fine, Shannon.”
“I’ll take half of everything.”
“I’ll take the house.”
“You’ll be on the street with two babies.”
A baby on my chest let out a small, gurgling sigh.
I held them closer.
The words were still hanging there when a quiet voice spoke from the edge of the floor.
“I wouldn’t count on that, Mr. Tennant.”
A woman in a navy suit had stepped out from behind the podium.
She was in her fifties, silver-framed glasses, a leather folder pressed against her chest.
I had met her once, in 2021, at my mother’s kitchen table.
Her name was Ms. Thackeray.
