I went up to my study. I had work to do. Wires to cancel—William’s supplementary credit cards, the joint accounts. Lawyers to call and a plan to map out.
Around three in the afternoon, I heard footsteps in the hall. Then the door to my study opened without a knock. Ethan stood there. His eyes were swollen and red, but he wasn’t crying anymore. His expression was one of cold, concentrated rage.
“You sent my dad away,” he said without preamble.
“Your father left of his own free will. To live with Jessica. With your mother.”
“You are not my mother,” he spat.
“Finally, something we agree on,” I said without looking up from my computer. “Biologically, I’m not. Legally, for the moment, I am. So as long as you live under my roof, you will follow my rules.”
“I’m not going to obey you.”
“Then there will be consequences. Starting with this.”
I pulled his console and his phone from a drawer.
“These are no longer yours. They are things I bought for the son I thought was mine. Since you are not, I am taking them away. Your clothes, your school, the food—I pay for all of it. It’s all a loan, and loans can be called in.”
He looked at me, horrified.
“You can’t.”
“Want to test me?”
I looked at him directly.
“Do you want me to call a taxi right now and take you to Queens? To that small apartment of your mother’s with no console, no phone, sharing a room, going to a public school? Because I can do it. Your father can’t stop me. I have his signed confession.”
For the first time, I saw fear break through his rage. The fear of losing everything he knew, everything he considered his by right.
“Why? Why do you hate me so much?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
“I don’t hate you, Ethan,” I said, and it was true. Hate required an emotional involvement I no longer felt for him. “You’re a child. A spoiled, entitled child. The product of despicable parents. You are their victim, just as I am. But you are also their accomplice. You knew the truth, and instead of compassion, you chose contempt. So don’t expect compassion from me. You have two options here. You stay and you follow my rules to the letter. You study, you help around the house, you treat everyone with respect, and you stop bullying anyone. Or you leave for the real world. You choose.”
He stood motionless, processing. His options were terrible, and he knew it. With me, it would be a life of discipline and coldness, but with comforts. With them, it would be chaos, poverty, and probably mutual resentment.
“I’m going to talk to my dad,” he said with what little authority he had left.
“Do it. Use the landline in the living room. You have five minutes. Then you decide.”
He left the room. I heard him go downstairs and pick up the phone. I didn’t listen to the conversation. I didn’t care.
Ten minutes later, he came back up. He stood in the doorway. He looked smaller, younger, defeated.
“I’m staying,” he muttered.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m staying,” he shouted.
And then, as if something inside him broke, he added,
“But I hate you. I will always hate you.”
“That’s your right,” I said, turning back to my screen. “The rules start now. Pilar will give you a list of chores. Dinner is at nine. If you’re not there, you don’t eat. And tomorrow, you go back to school with a public apology written and read by you to those girls you bullied. And to Valerie. If you don’t do it, the taxi to Queens will be waiting for you at dismissal.”
This time, he didn’t answer. He turned and left. His footsteps, once loud and defiant, were now slow and heavy.
I sighed. A battle won, but the war continued, and the most important part, the only part that truly mattered, was about to begin.
The next day, after making sure Ethan had gone to school with the written apology in his backpack, under the discreet watch of Frank, I drove to the group home. This time, I wasn’t carrying books. I was carrying something more.
Sister Catherine met me with a smile.
“Valerie is in the workshop learning to repair bicycles with a volunteer. She’s incredible with her hands.”
“May I see her? In private, if possible?”
The nun nodded and led me to a small office.
“I’ll send for her.”
I was left alone looking at the shelves of files and the children’s drawings on the walls. A few minutes later, Valerie came in. She was wearing work pants stained with grease and wiping her hands on a rag. When she saw me, she stopped short.
“Again?” she asked, but without open hostility. Just curiosity.
“Yes, again. Can I talk to you? Can we sit?”
She hesitated, then nodded and sat on the edge of a chair across from me. She watched me with her clear, attentive eyes.
“Valerie,” I began, and I could feel my pulse quicken. This was the most important conversation of my life. “I’m going to tell you a story, a very ugly story, and then I’m going to ask you a question. You don’t have to answer now. I just want you to listen.”
She frowned, but nodded.
“Okay.”
