Chapter 2
The first document was not a letter.
It was a copy of Owen’s birth certificate.
His full name was listed beneath ours.
Owen James Keaton.
My son.
I touched the paper, then set it down.
The next item was a hospital discharge summary. I recognized Corinne’s name, the date, and the hospital where she had delivered. Her admission time was listed as 2:14 a.m.
That was the night I had told her I was in Atlanta.
The night I had been in Tessa’s suite.
The night my son was born.
I forced myself to keep reading.
There were bank statements. Property records. Printed emails. A copy of a trust agreement I had never seen before.
My first instinct was anger.
Not at Corinne.
At the sheer unfairness of being confronted with a version of my life I had somehow managed not to notice.
Then I saw the letter.
It was four pages long, written in Corinne’s hand.
Grant,
If you are reading this, I have already left Nashville with Owen. I am not writing to punish you, and I am not asking you to chase me. I am writing because I owe you the truth, even if you have stopped owing me yours.
I sat down.
For a few seconds, I could not turn the page.
Then I did.
The first months after Owen was born were harder than I told you. Not because of the baby. He was never the problem. I loved waking for him, even when I was exhausted. I loved learning the small sounds he made before he cried. I loved watching you hold him on the rare mornings you were home long enough to do it.
But I was lonely.
I had expected new motherhood to be difficult. I had not expected to feel like a guest in my own marriage.
I looked toward the windows.
The afternoon light had always filled that room. Corinne used to sit beside the bassinet while Owen slept, reading or answering emails. I had thought of those moments as peaceful.
I had never asked whether they were.
The letter continued.
When you missed the appointment with Owen’s pediatrician, you said the meeting had run late. When you missed the night he had his first fever, you said your phone was dead. When you didn’t come home for my birthday, you sent flowers and said the project was taking more of your time than expected.