We walked into the bright, sunny kitchen—the very kitchen where, six months ago, I had sat weeping in silence while my husband lied to my face over the phone.
I set Maya down in her high chair, offering her a slice of apple, and poured two cups of hot coffee.
“Have you heard from him?” my mother asked gently, taking a seat at the island.
“His attorney emailed yesterday regarding his supervised visitation schedule for next month,” I replied, my voice completely free of bitterness. “He asked if I would be open to talking to him directly.”
“And what did you say?”
I smiled, taking a slow sip of my coffee as I looked out at the blooming cherry blossom tree in the backyard.
“I told him that all communications must continue through my legal representation. I don’t speak to strangers.”
My mother smiled, reaching across the counter to pat my hand with deep, quiet pride.
