Jason thought separate accounts meant freedom.
He did not understand the math of our life.
That was the part that would undo him.
At home, he pulled into the driveway of our brick two-story house in Marietta with the same exaggerated control he used when he wanted me to notice he was displeased. The neighborhood was dark except for porch lights and the soft blue flicker of televisions behind curtains. Our house looked peaceful from the outside: black shutters, white trim, hydrangeas by the walkway, a little tricycle tipped over near the garage because Ellie had abandoned it there before we left for dinner.
I carried Ellie inside while Jason grabbed nothing.
That was normal. He had always been the kind of father who loved the idea of holding his daughter in photographs but somehow failed to notice when she needed to be lifted from the car, changed out of a dress, given water, tucked in, kissed twice, then once more because the first two “didn’t count.”
I carried her upstairs, took off her shoes, changed her into pajamas with little yellow moons on them, and tucked her into bed. She opened her eyes for half a second.
“Mommy?”
“I’m here, baby.”
“Daddy got a clapping dinner?”