Chapter 8 - The Ultimatum
The front door slammed shut behind Ruth, the heavy sound vibrating through the walls of the foyer.
Andrew stood near the archway leading to the living room, his arms hanging limp at his sides, looking as though he had just survived a high-speed collision.
“You’re insane,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You’ve completely lost your mind, Claire.”
I didn't answer him. I walked past him into the kitchen, picked up the lunchbox I had been packing for Emma, and carefully slid a juice box inside.
Andrew followed me, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood floor. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen island, leaning over it, his knuckles turning white.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” he demanded, his voice rising in panic. “She’s going to rewrite her entire estate! She’s going to cut us out of the trust! Everything Dad built—”
“I don't care about the trust, Andrew,” I said, setting the lunchbox down and looking him straight in the eyes. “I care about the fact that my six-year-old daughter asked me if her father loved her less because she wasn't born a boy.”
Andrew winced, but his panic quickly turned back into defensiveness. “She didn't mean it like that! Kids interpret things dramatically!”
“She interpreted it exactly as it was delivered,” I said. “Your mother stood in front of twelve people and told this family that female children are placeholders. And you stood there and giggled like a schoolboy.”
“I was nervous!” he screamed, slamming his fist down onto the marble island. “I was trying to stop a public brawl on New Year’s Eve! Is that a crime?! Am I a monster because I didn't start screaming at my sixty-six-year-old mother in front of my entire family?!”
“No,” I said quietly. “You’re not a monster, Andrew.”
He let out a short breath, thinking he had gained ground. “Thank you—”
“You’re just a coward,” I finished.
The word hung in the quiet kitchen, cold, simple, and devastatingly precise.
Andrew stared at me, his mouth open, his face flushing dark red. “Don't call me that.”
“What else do you call a man who lets his mother insult his pregnant wife and his young daughters, and then demands that his wife apologize for being upset?” I asked, leaning against the counter, folding my arms. “Give me another word for it, Andrew. I’d love to hear it.”
He couldn't. He stood there, his chest heaving, his eyes darting around the bright, immaculate kitchen we had chosen together three years ago.
“I am pregnant,” I said, pointing down at my stomach. “In twenty-five weeks, another child is going to enter this world. If it’s a girl, I will not raise her in a house where her father apologizes for her existence. And if it’s a boy, I will never allow him to grow up thinking he is superior to his sisters simply because of his gender.”
Andrew took a deep, trembling breath, running both hands through his hair. “Claire, please. Let’s just cool down. We can go to marriage counseling. We can talk to someone—”
“Counseling won't fix this, Andrew,” I interrupted. “Counseling is for people who have a communication problem. We don't have a communication problem. You communicated perfectly on New Year’s Eve. You showed me exactly where your priorities lie.”
I pulled a small white envelope out of my apron pocket and set it gently on the marble island between us.
Andrew looked at it. “What’s that?”
“It’s the business card for Sarah Lin,” I said. “She’s a family law attorney downtown. I called her yesterday morning.”
Andrew froze. His eyes went wide, staring at the small white rectangle as if it were a bomb. “You... you called a divorce lawyer?”
“I have an intake consultation on Tuesday,” I said, my voice entirely steady. “You have five days to make a decision, Andrew.”
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“A decision about what?” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“About whether you want to be a husband and a father,” I said, stepping past him toward the hallway, “or if you just want to be Ruth Mercer’s son. Because you can’t be both anymore.”
