Chapter 2 - The Drive Home
The interior of my car felt like a sanctuary. The heavy oak doors of the Pembroke estate closed behind me, cutting off the chatter. Cutting off the soft, classical music pouring from the sunroom. And cutting off the laughter.
I buckled June into her car seat with trembling hands. She was whimpering slightly, her tiny fists curled tight. I leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry, sweetie," I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
When I slid into the driver's seat, my hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn't cry. There were no tears left for Margaret Pembroke. Instead, there was a cold, unfamiliar clarity settling into my bones.
The drive home took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of silence, save for the hum of the engine and the rhythmic breathing of my baby. My mind replayed the scene over and over. The gleam of the velvet box. The casual cruelty in Margaret's eyes. The way the guests—people who had just congratulated me on my beautiful child—had chuckled as if I were nothing but a punchline.
Wesley hadn't been in the room. He had stepped away to take a business call from his father, Arthur. Arthur Pembroke was the patriarch. A man built of steel and old money, who demanded absolute perfection from everyone around him. Arthur rarely attended daytime social events. He left the "frivolities," as he called them, to his wife.
I pulled into the driveway of our modest, three-bedroom house. It wasn't a mansion. It didn't have a crystal chandelier or a sunroom. But it was ours. It was safe.
Ten minutes after I brought June inside and laid her in her crib, I heard the front door open. Footsteps hurried down the hallway. "Nora?" Wesley's voice was panicked. He appeared in the doorway of the nursery, slightly out of breath, his tie loosened.
"I came back to the sunroom and you were gone," he said. He looked at me, his eyes searching my face. "My mother said you got overwhelmed. She said you had some kind of hormonal mood swing and just walked out."
He stepped closer, reaching for my arm. "Are you okay? Is June okay?"
I looked at my husband. The man I loved. The man who had always told me to "give her time." To "ignore her comments." To "be the bigger person."
I didn't yell. I didn't accuse him. I simply reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and unlocked the screen.
May you like
"I didn't have a mood swing, Wesley," I said quietly. My voice sounded hollow, even to me. "I just finally realized what your mother really thinks of us."
I tapped the screen. I handed him the phone. And I watched his face as the video began to play.
