That afternoon we met again, this time at her office in Manhattan. Through the window you could hear car horns, food vendors, and the noise of the subway rumbling below. The city kept living, indifferent to the fact that my marriage was rotting like forgotten fruit.
Paige reviewed David’s recording, Alice’s visit, the messages I had photographed from his locked screen. —”We’re going to get ahead of them,” she said. —”How?” —”First, I notify the bank. Second, file a report for domestic violence under the financial and psychological modalities. Third, restraining orders. And fourth, we bulletproof the apartment.” —”Today?” —”Yesterday, Maya.”
She explained each step without sugarcoating it. I nodded, but inside I was only thinking about my daughter. That she wasn’t even born yet and there were already people trying to take her roof away.
Before I left, Paige gave me a piece of advice. —”Don’t confront Valerie alone.” —”I wasn’t planning to.” —”You were thinking about it. I know you.”
I stayed quiet. She sighed. —”Listen to me. A pregnant woman doesn’t need to prove her bravery by climbing into a cage. She needs to get out of it alive.”
But the invitation arrived that very night. Not to me. To my email.
David, clumsy from desperation, had used my account to print some invoices and left the venue’s session open.
“Event Confirmation: Valerie’s Baby Shower. Private Garden, Greenwich. Saturday, 5:00 p.m.”
Attachments: menu, decoration, deposit.
There were hors d’oeuvres, a dessert table, blush-pink flowers, and a massive sign:
“Welcome, Matthew.”
Matthew. Our baby. That “our” was no longer a word. It was a knife.
Saturday dawned clear, with that May sun that beats down on New York as if it wants to bake even the cracks in the pavement. I put on a loose, comfortable black dress and tied my hair back. My mom would have scolded me for going out seven months pregnant to confront someone else’s mess, but my mom also would have been the first to put on her earrings and say:
“Let’s go see the looks on their faces.”
Paige picked me up. She brought a folder, two fully charged phones, and the dangerous serenity of a lawyer who has already smelled blood. —”You’re not going to say too much,” she warned me. —”I’m not promising anything.” —”Then promise not to go into labor there.” —”Now that isn’t up to me.”
We arrived in Greenwich just as the blooming trees had dropped purple carpets over the sidewalks. The garden was behind a massive house with hydrangeas at the entrance and valet parking for people who said the word “vendors” with disdain.
Laughter could be heard from outside. I walked in without knocking.
There were beige and gold balloons, centerpieces with flowers surely bought at a premium florist, and a dessert table so perfect it made me nauseous. Macarons, onesie-shaped cookies, cupcakes with the name Matthew.
I saw David next to Valerie. She was wearing a tight white dress, a pink sash over her belly, and her hair down in loose waves. She didn’t look surprised to see him standing proudly with his hand on her belly.
But she did look surprised to see me.
The music dropped as if someone had pulled an invisible plug. David went pale. —”Maya.”
Everyone turned around. Alice was sitting near the main table, wearing a pearl necklace and a frozen smile. Upon seeing me, she stood up so fast she almost knocked over her sparkling water. —”What are you doing here?” she said.
I walked forward slowly. Every step hurt my back, but I wasn’t going to stop. —”I came to congratulate the family.”
