PART 3
“Yes, Victor,” I replied calmly. “We are flying to London this afternoon.” His eyes narrowed. “You can’t take my children out of the country without my permission.” “You gave me permission six weeks ago.” “I did no such thing.” “The international relocation agreement was attached to the custody proposal. Page nine. Paragraph four.” Victor stared at me.
“You signed it,” I continued. “Your lawyer sent me the notarized copy.” His face tightened as he tried to remember a document he had never bothered to read. “That was paperwork,” he snapped.
“I didn’t think you would actually leave.” “That sentence describes our entire marriage, Victor. You never thought I would actually leave.” The driver stood silently beside the open car door. For the first time that morning, Victor looked uncertain. “Where will you live?” “In my family’s house.” “What family house?” “The one my grandmother left me in Richmond.” His confusion deepened.
During twelve years of marriage, Victor had never once asked what happened to the home where I spent my childhood summers. He knew my mother was British. He knew I had dual citizenship. He knew I received letters from a London solicitor every year. He had simply assumed none of it mattered because it did not belong to him.
“You never told me you owned a house in London,” he said. “I did. Twice. You were looking at your phone both times.” His mouth opened, but no words came out. Behind him, Samantha emerged from the building. “Victor, we need to go,” she called. “Naomi’s appointment is in thirty-five minutes. Mom and Dad are already there.”
That reminder seemed to restore his confidence. He straightened his shoulders and glanced at the town car as though it offended him. Then he looked directly at me. Five minutes had passed since our divorce became final. “Take the girls,” he said coldly. “I’ve got a son coming now.” The words landed harder than I expected. Not because he was rejecting me. Because Abigail and Charlotte deserved a father who would never say such a thing about them.
I studied the man I had loved for twelve years and realized that the hardest part of leaving him was already over. I no longer recognized him. “Goodbye, Victor,” I said. He turned toward Samantha, but I stopped before entering the car. “And when the truth reaches you,” I added, “don’t call me expecting sympathy.” His head snapped around. “What truth?” I stepped inside without answering.
