Henry slowly shook his head. “Carol’s been touring condos near her sister in Sarasota. And Ethan’s been telling people you’re ‘taking time to recover’ before you relocate.”
“Relocate?” I asked, even though dread was already pooling in my stomach.
“Not with you,” he said gently. “He’s making arrangements to leave. And there’s more.” He slid out a printed email. The subject line read: “Custody Plan Draft.” Ethan’s name was on it. So was Carol’s.
My ears buzzed. Custody. Plan. Draft.
Before I could process another word, the door handle turned. Footsteps approached, light and familiar. Grandpa Henry looked at me sharply.
Ethan’s voice came through the door. “Babe, we’re back—”
The door opened.
Ethan walked in carrying a paper bag from the cafeteria. Carol followed, her smile too bright for a room that still smelled of antiseptic and exhaustion.
“Henry,” Carol said, feigning surprise. “Well, this is unexpected.”
Grandpa didn’t stand. He simply held up the envelope. “Sit down, Ethan.”
Ethan’s expression stiffened. His eyes flicked to me, then to the baby, then to the papers. “What’s going on?”
I swallowed. “Is there a custody plan draft with your name on it?”
Carol’s gaze shot to Ethan, wordless but loaded. Ethan set the bag down and sighed. “Mia, it’s not what it looks like.”
“That’s what people say when it’s exactly what it looks like,” Grandpa Henry replied evenly.
Ethan rubbed his temples. “My mom was just helping. We’ve both been overwhelmed—the baby, your recovery, finances.”
“We?” I repeated quietly. “I’m the one who just gave birth. And you and your mother are drafting custody plans?”
Carol stepped forward, palms raised as if calming a child. “Sweetheart, we’re protecting Ethan. You’re very emotional right now. You’ve struggled with anxiety before—”
“My anxiety was under control,” I shot back. “You’re the one who told me I didn’t need therapy anymore once I married your son.”
Ethan flushed. “Can we not do this here?”
Leave a Comment