Chapter 2 - The Packing of the Car
The silence in the kitchen was so absolute that you could hear the distant warble of neighborhood robins through the open patio door. Sophie’s friends were still outside, clapping rhythmically now, their small voices carrying through the double-paned glass: “Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you…”
I walked past my father, ignoring the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, and pushed open the sliding glass door. The sunlight hit my eyes, sharp and blinding. Six little girls turned toward me, their faces flushed with excitement, waiting for the grand entrance of the cake with its seven flickering candles.
Sophie was standing near the patio table, her paper crown slightly askew, clapping along with the others. When she saw me step outside alone, empty-handed, her hands slowly dropped to her sides.
“Mom?” she asked, her voice small against the background noise of the neighborhood. “Where’s the cake?”
I knelt down in the grass, ignoring the dampness soaking through the knees of my jeans, and looked straight into her wide, trusting eyes. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep my face smooth, to keep my breathing steady so she wouldn’t catch the panic clawing at my throat.
“Honey, something happened to the cake,” I said, keeping my tone as gentle as possible. “An accident in the kitchen. It got ruined.”
“Ruined?” A little girl in a pink tutu leaned forward. “Like, fell on the floor?”
“Something like that,” I said, offering a tight, reassuring smile that felt like cracking dry earth. “And you know what? That means we get to have an adventure. We’re going to pack up our things, go back to our apartment, and I ordered us a special delivery from the ice cream parlor downtown. The kind with the rainbow sprinkles and the waffle cones.”
Sophie’s lower lip quivered for a fraction of a second, the disappointment threatening to break through. But children take their emotional cues from the adults around them. Because I wasn't crying, because I wasn't screaming at the sky, she decided the world hadn't ended yet.
“Waffle cones?” she whispered, her eyes widening a little.
“The biggest ones they have,” I promised. “Go grab your gift bag, sweetie. Tell your friends we’re moving the party back to our place for the grand finale.”
As Sophie ran off to gather her things, shouting happily to her friends about ice cream, I stood back up and walked back inside the house.
My father and Denise were waiting in the kitchen. Denise had crossed her arms, her posture stiff and defensive, while my father was sliding his phone into his pocket with a guilty, shuffling movement.
“You’re really leaving?” my father asked, his voice pitching upward in an effort to sound aggrieved rather than caught. “After all the trouble we went through to host this?”
“You didn’t host anything, Dad,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, losing all warmth. “You provided a backyard while your wife threw my daughter’s birthday cake into the garbage.”
“It was cluttering the counter,” Denise snapped, her face flushing a mottled pink. “And frankly, your tone right now is entirely uncalled for. You’ve had a chip on your shoulder about this family since the day Robert and I got married.”
I didn’t argue with her. Arguing required caring what she thought, and as of three minutes ago, my capacity for caring had been completely exhausted. I walked past them down the hall, grabbing Sophie’s jacket from the coat rack and collecting the remaining favor bags from the dining table.
As I packed the trunk of my sedan, my father hurried out onto the driveway, trailing behind me like a dog caught digging in the flower bed.
“Natalie, look,” he stammered, holding his hands up placatingly. “Denise was out of line, okay? I’ll admit that. But you know how she gets when things don't go according to her schedule. You shouldn't have brought a huge three-tier box without checking where it was supposed to go. It throws off her routine.”
I slammed the trunk shut with a heavy thud that made him flinch. I turned around and looked at him—really looked at him. This was the man who had taught me how to ride a bike, who had stayed up all night helping me build a papier-mâché volcano for the fifth-grade science fair, and who now stood in a $900 designer jacket defending a woman who laughed while his only grandchild’s birthday cake was defiled.
“Dad,” I said quietly. “Do you remember when you bought this house?”
He blinked, thrown off by the abrupt change in subject. “What? Uh, yeah. Five years ago. Right before Denise and I got married.”
“Right,” I nodded, my eyes drifting up to the second-story gable, admiring the expensive cedar siding and the architectural symmetry. “It’s a beautiful place, isn't it? Great neighborhood, fantastic schools, wonderful investment.”
“It’s our home,” he said defensively, straightening his jacket. “We worked hard for it.”
“Did you?” I asked, letting a small, humorless smile touch the corners of my mouth. “Because last month, when I was helping Uncle Larry clean out the legal archives down at the county records office while he was recovering from his hip surgery, I came across a very interesting stack of probate documents.”
My father’s color shifted from pink to an unhealthy, pasty grey. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
“You remember Uncle Larry, don’t you?” I continued, stepping a little closer. “Real estate attorney for thirty years. He kept copies of everything. Especially things involving estates, deeds, and second marriages.”
“What are you talking about, Natalie?” my father asked, his voice dropping, losing its bluster.
May you like
“Nothing,” I said, opening my driver’s side door and sliding behind the wheel. I rolled down the window and looked out at him one last time. “Just enjoy the sunshine, Dad. Make sure you take plenty of photos. Because four weeks from today, you’re going to need them for the moving truck.”
Before he could answer, I put the car in reverse, backed down the long paved driveway without looking back, and drove my daughter to a diner where we ate double-scoop ice cream for lunch and laughed until her cheeks hurt.
