“She left,” I said, and this time the silence from her end was real.
“What do you mean she left?” Camille asked.
“I came home and the house was empty,” I explained, every piece of furniture and every photograph gone.
“Well, that is just dramatic,” she said with a dismissive tone.
I almost laughed at the absurdity of her calling it dramatic when my wife had just discovered a betrayal that reached into the very hallway where she had given birth.
“She filed for divorce,” I stated, my voice flat.
“That is not exactly a tragedy,” Camille replied slowly.
“She is asking for full custody,” I said, and that finally stopped her.
“Full custody means more freedom for us, right?” she said, and something inside me finally went cold.
I had mistaken her attention for love for months, but love does not sound relieved when a father loses his child.
“Are you still there?” she asked.
I lowered the phone, listening to her voice spill out about how my wife was manipulating me and how this was actually a good thing for us.
“Come over, Trevor,” she urged. “You should not be alone right now.”
I looked around the kitchen, seeing the absence of all the small things that had made this house a home, and I finally understood what I had done.
“No,” I said firmly.
“What do you mean no?” she asked.
“I cannot come over because my daughter is gone,” I said.
“She is with her mother,” Camille said sharply. “And you need to stop being so gullible.”
I looked at the receipts and the jewelry I had bought earlier that day, realizing they were not gifts but evidence of a crime I had committed against my own family.
“No, this is not manipulation,” I said quietly. “This is just the consequence of my actions.”
She grew silent, and then her voice hardened significantly.
“So what are you going to do? Are you going to run after her and play the grieving husband?”
“I do not know,” I said honestly.
“You told me you loved me,” she insisted.
“I thought I did,” I admitted, and the line went dead quiet.
“Be careful, Trevor,” she said very softly, and a chill moved through me.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means do not act like I was alone in this,” she snapped. “And do not suddenly decide I am the villain just because your wife finally grew a spine.”
“Don’t you dare talk about her like that,” I said, and she laughed sharply.
“Listen to you,” she mocked. “One empty nursery and suddenly she is a saint.”
I hung up, standing there with my pulse hammering until the front door opened. I spun around, hoping for a split second that it was Sophie, but it was my brother, Elias. He stepped inside using the spare key he had kept for years, his eyes scanning the empty house before landing on me.
“You found it,” he said, his voice grave.
“You knew?” I asked, my mouth feeling like it was filled with sawdust.
“Yes, I knew,” Elias said, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Where is she?” I asked, my desperation peaking.
“She asked me not to tell you,” he said, his expression unreadable.
“Elias, she is my wife,” I pleaded.
“She is your wife on paper,” he replied, his voice devoid of pity.
“That is my daughter,” I said, taking a step toward him.
“I know that,” he said, his voice dropping into something heavier.
“Then tell me where they are,” I insisted.
“No,” he said simply.
“Did you help her?” I asked, horrified.
“I drove the moving truck,” Elias said, and those words hit me harder than any physical blow.
“You what?” I gasped.
“She called me two weeks ago and asked if I still meant what I said about helping her,” he explained.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“After our mother died, I told her that if she ever needed real help, she could call me, no questions asked,” he said.
“You had no right to do that,” I said, shaking my head.
“Neither did you,” he countered, his gaze moving toward the empty nursery.
I wanted to argue about the complexities of marriage and the pressure I had been under, but the words died in my throat. Elias had seen the papers and the empty rooms, and unlike me, he had made his choice before the damage was irreparable.
