Chapter 4

Fisher returned at nine in the evening, carrying a paper bag.

I recognized it at a glance; it was from the dessert shop Mia often bought from.

Orwell rushed over. “Dad!”

Fisher bent down to hug him, handing him the paper bag. “Mia got you this.”

Orwell happily tore it open. Inside was a box of macarons.

Eleanor smiled. “Mia is so thoughtful.”

I sat on the sofa. “Fisher, we need to talk.”

He paused while taking off his jacket. “About what?”

“About what you’ve been saying about me in front of the kid.”

Fisher glanced at Orwell. “What did Orwell say now?”

I repeated the Italian phrase.

His expression wasn't shocked, just impatient at being exposed.

“Chloe, can you just not be so sensitive right now?”

I asked, “Did you say it or not?”

He tugged at his tie. “Just joking around.”

“Joking around with whom?”

He didn't speak. I answered for him. “Mia?”

Eleanor immediately cut in.

“Why are you bringing up Mia? She’s a good, decent girl, don’t think the worst of people.”

I looked at her. “She’s so decent she buys Orwell desserts and teaches him to compare her to me?”

Fisher frowned. “You’re getting more and more unpleasant.”

I gave a small laugh. “I’m already like a pig, how much more unpleasant can I get?”

Fisher was speechless.

Orwell sat to the side, holding a macaron.

He looked at me, then at his dad.

Finally, he mumbled, “Mom, don’t argue.”

I asked, “Why not?”

He said, “Dad works really hard to earn money.”

A six-year-old wouldn’t randomly feel sorry for a dad who “works really hard to earn money.”

Unless someone taught him that every day.

I looked at Eleanor. She avoided my gaze.

I suddenly understood that Orwell hadn’t turned out like this overnight.

He had simply learned, word by word, the daily contempt that the adults in this house let slip.

I stood up. “Fisher, let’s get a divorce.”

The TV was still laughing, but no one in the living room responded.

A few seconds later, Eleanor was the first to shriek, “Are you crazy?”

Fisher stared at me. “Just because of one sentence from the kid?”

I looked at him. “It’s not just one sentence.”

That sentence was just the final straw.

It was when I finally heard clearly how much badmouthing this family had been doing behind my back.