Chapter 2 - The Studio Records
The next morning, Peter left for his office before seven. The house had that particular post-conflict stillness where everything looks normal on the surface—the coffee maker was cleaned, the dish towels were hung neatly over the sink—but the air felt heavy.
Willa was in her room, packing her backpack for school. Her mother was picking her up at eight for her week-long stay at Kara's house.
I sat at the kitchen island with Nina lying in her bouncy seat near my feet. On my laptop, the email from Elena had arrived at 6:15 AM. It was a link to the private online gallery containing the proofs from yesterday's session.
I clicked the link.
The gallery opened to a grid of thirty high-resolution thumbnails. I scrolled slowly, looking at the images. There were beautiful shots of Willa holding Nina, her face soft and careful. There were shots of all four of us sitting by the window, the morning light catching the yellow of Willa’s cardigan.
Then I reached the second section of the gallery.
It was labeled Custom Session - Pre-Requested Angles.
I clicked on the folder, expecting to see individual portraits of the girls. Instead, I found six photos taken at the very beginning of the session, before Elaine had even walked into the studio.
In those photos, Peter stood alone with Nina, smiling down at her. In others, Peter and I stood together holding the baby, without Willa anywhere in the frame.
I stared at the timestamp on the files.
They were shot nine days ago.
Nine days ago, Peter had told me he was taking Nina to the pediatrician for her three-month checkup and routine vaccinations. He had been gone for nearly two and a half hours, explaining when he returned that the clinic was running behind schedule and that Nina had been fussy afterward.
I stared at the screen, my hand hovering over the trackpad. I picked up my phone and dialed Elena’s studio line. She answered on the third ring.
"Elena, it's Beth Miller," I said, keeping my tone professional. "I'm looking through the online gallery right now."
"Oh, hi Beth!" Elena’s voice was warm, though a slight hesitation crept in. "I hope you like them. The light near the window turned out so lovely with Willa and the baby."
"They're wonderful," I said. "I just have a question about the second folder. The pre-requested angles."
There was a distinct pause on the line. I heard the faint sound of paper shuffling on her end.
"Ah," Elena said, her enthusiasm dampening into caution. "Yes. Peter booked a twenty-minute mini-slot during our mid-week open hours last week. He said he wanted to get a specific three-person portrait set as a gift for his mother’s birthday, but he didn't want to stress the baby out by doing a massive session all in one day."
"He booked it nine days ago," I repeated.
"Yes. On Tuesday the 21st. He paid for the additional shoot fee in advance and asked me to include those files in the main gallery download so he could order the prints through our fulfillment lab."
My throat felt dry. "Did he ask you not to mention it to me yesterday?"
Elena was quiet for two full seconds. When she spoke again, her professional distance was firm. "Beth, I don't usually get involved in family arrangements. Peter told me you were busy with work that afternoon and that he was handling the setup for Elaine's gift as a surprise. I assumed you were aware of the arrangement."
"I see," I said. "Thank you, Elena. The photos really are lovely."
I hung up.
I sat at the kitchen counter for a long time, the quiet of the morning broken only by the rhythmic clicking of Nina’s foot against the frame of her chair.
Nine days ago, Peter hadn't been standing in a doctor's waiting room. He had taken our three-month-old daughter to a studio to take the exact photograph his mother wanted—the portrait of his "new family"—without his eleven-year-old daughter, and without my knowledge.
When Elaine had put her hand on Willa's shoulder yesterday and told her to step aside, she hadn't been acting on a sudden, clumsy impulse. She had been executing a plan that her son had already agreed to, paid for, and facilitated nine days prior.
When Peter stood beside me in the studio and told his mother, "You could've said that better," he wasn't objecting to the exclusion of his eldest child. He was objecting to the fact that his mother had revealed the secret in front of Willa and me.
A horn sounded in the driveway. It was Kara’s car.
I closed the laptop screen, walked upstairs, and helped Willa carry her bag down to the front hall. She had her yellow cardigan folded neatly over her arm.
"Have a good week, sweetie," I said, leaning down to hug her. I squeezed her tighter than usual.
"Thanks, Beth," she said. She hesitated at the front door, looking back toward the living room where Peter’s coat was usually hung. "Is Dad coming back before I go?"
"He had an early meeting today," I lied smoothly. "He'll call you tonight after school."
She nodded, pulled her shoulder bag up, and walked down the paved walkway to where Kara was waiting in her station wagon. I watched from the porch as Kara leaned over to unlock the passenger door, her eyes meeting mine over the roof of the car. Kara gave me a brief, neutral nod. I wondered how much Willa had told her, or how much Kara already knew about the subtle, quiet dismissals that lived inside the Miller family structure.
When the car pulled away, I went back into the kitchen, opened my laptop, and took a screenshot of the gallery timestamp, the photographer's invoice, and the confirmation email sent to Peter's private email address.
I didn't call him. I didn't send a furious text.
May you like
I sat down at the table, opened a fresh notebook, and wrote down three dates: the day Peter booked the solo shoot, the day he took Nina to the studio, and yesterday.
Then I waited for him to come home.
