When My Husband Chose His Mistress Over Our Dying Baby

The brunch was at eleven.

Cynthia's townhouse on the Upper East Side had tall windows that let in cold light. The kind that made everything look sharp. I arrived with Madeline at ten fifty-five. The nanny carried the diaper bag. I carried Madeline.

Cynthia opened the door in cream cashmere. She looked at me for half a second. Then she looked past me.

"Elodie," she said. "You're early."

"I thought you said eleven."

"Eleven fifteen." She stepped back. "Well. Come in."

The dining room table was set for eight. White china. Silver. A low arrangement of white roses down the center. I recognized the chairs from a catalog Cynthia had shown me once, back when she still pretended to include me in things.

Keith was already seated at the head of the table. He glanced up from his phone. Nodded once. Went back to his screen.

I sat at the far end. The nanny took Madeline to the kitchen. I folded my hands in my lap and waited.

At eleven seventeen the door opened again.

Kamiyah walked in wearing a camel coat and holding a bottle of wine wrapped in brown paper. Cynthia's face opened up like a curtain pulling back.

"Oh, Kamiyah!" She crossed the room in three steps and kissed both her cheeks. European style. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Harrison." Kamiyah's voice was warm. Easy. She handed over the wine. "I hope this is all right. The man at the shop said it pairs well with lamb."

"It's perfect. You're so thoughtful." Cynthia looped her arm through Kamiyah's and led her to the table. "Sit here, darling. Next to me."

Kamiyah sat. Two seats down from Keith. Four seats away from me.

Weston arrived ten minutes later. He kissed his mother's cheek. Shook his father's hand. Sat down beside Kamiyah. He didn't look at me. Not once.

Brunch was lamb. Roasted potatoes. Asparagus with lemon. Cynthia talked about the charity gala she was planning for the spring. Keith talked about the market. Kamiyah talked about Paris — the galleries, the restaurants, a little bakery near her old apartment that made the best almond croissants.

"You must miss it," Cynthia said.

"I do." Kamiyah smiled. "But it's nice to be home."

Home.

I cut a potato into smaller and smaller pieces. I didn't eat any of it.

"And where are you staying now?" Cynthia asked.

Kamiyah glanced at Weston. He refilled her water glass.

"I'm at the Carlyle for now," she said. "But I'm looking at apartments in the neighborhood. Something close."

"How wonderful." Cynthia's smile didn't move. "You'll have to let me know if you need any recommendations. I know everyone."

Keith leaned forward. "What do you do, Kamiyah?"

"I'm in acquisitions. Art, mostly. I worked for a gallery in Paris, but I'm consulting now."

"Consulting." Keith nodded. He looked impressed. He had never asked me what I did. Not once in three years.

I set my fork down. I looked at my plate. I tried to make myself smaller.

After dessert — lemon tart, coffee, small talk I wasn't part of — Cynthia stood and clapped her hands together once.

"Let's take a photo in the garden," she said. "The light is perfect."

Everyone moved toward the French doors. I stood. I smoothed my dress. I followed.

The garden was small but carefully kept. Boxwoods in planters. A stone bench. Cynthia arranged everyone in front of the ivy-covered wall. Keith in the center. Weston beside him. Kamiyah on Weston's other side.

I stood at the edge of the group. I held my hands in front of me. I waited.

Cynthia looked through the camera on her phone. She frowned. She lowered it.

"Elodie, darling," she said. Her voice was light. Kind, even. "Would you mind stepping out? Just for this one. The frame's a bit crowded."

I looked at her. Then at Weston. He was adjusting his collar. He didn't look back.

"Of course," I said.

I stepped to the side. I stood by the boxwoods and watched Cynthia take four photos. In every one, Kamiyah was smiling. In every one, Weston's hand was near her elbow.

When it was over, I went inside. I found the nanny in the kitchen. I took Madeline from her arms. I didn't say goodbye to anyone. I walked out the front door and kept walking until I reached the corner.

I stood there for a long time. Madeline made a small sound against my shoulder. I kissed the top of her head.

"It's okay," I whispered. "It's okay."

But it wasn't.

***

Two nights later I was in the nursery.

Madeline was asleep in my arms. The rocker creaked when I moved. The room smelled like lavender and baby soap. I had painted this room myself. Pale yellow. Weston had held the ladder.

I heard voices downstairs. Kamiyah's laugh. Light. Easy.

Then her voice, louder. Closer. She was in the hallway.

"I just think," she was saying, "the baby really should be in the nanny's quarters. It makes more sense. This room has such good light. It could be a study. Or a closet."

Weston's voice. Low. I couldn't make out the words.

"I'm not saying get rid of the crib." Kamiyah again. "I'm saying move it. She's with the nanny most of the time anyway."

Silence.

Then Weston: "I'll think about it."

Footsteps. They moved away. Down the stairs.

I looked down at Madeline. Her eyelids were thin. I could see the veins underneath. Her hand curled around my finger.

I stood. I walked to the window. The street outside was quiet. A taxi passed. Someone walked a dog.

I thought about my mother's apartment. The twin bed. The radiator. The smell of coffee and Tide.

I thought about the lease I'd signed on this house. My name wasn't on it.

I thought about the bank account. Joint. But Weston made the deposits.

I thought about Madeline. And what I would need. And how long it would take.

I sat back down in the rocker. I held my daughter. I started making a list in my head.

For the first time in three years, I wasn't hoping.

I was planning.