The next morning, sunlight stretches across the guest suite’s sitting room in neat pale bands. You hear the babies before you see them, small hungry cries layered with Clara’s hushed voice and the rustling urgency of a mother who no longer gets mornings gently. When you step into the doorway, Clara is perched on the edge of the sofa with one twin against each arm, feeding them from bottles in practiced rhythm. Her hair is tied up badly. She looks exhausted. She also looks more real than she ever did in the last year of your marriage.
She glances up, guarded but not hostile. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
For a second, neither of you speaks. Then Nora loses her latch and starts crying in outrage at the universe. Instinct moves you before thought does. You step forward, pick up the burp cloth from the cushion, and hand it to Clara. She takes it without comment, but your fingers brush, and the tiny contact sends a memory through you so vivid it almost steals your breath. Her hand in yours on a rainy day in Dayton. Her hand on the small of your back in the kitchen. Her hand pulling away the last time you reached for her and both of you knew it was already too late.
You retreat two steps.
“Mom wanted to know if you’d meet with a lawyer,” you say. “A good one.”
Clara’s expression closes slightly. “I don’t have money for one.”
“You wouldn’t be paying.”
“There it is,” she says quietly. “Debt.”
You inhale. “Protection isn’t ownership, Clara.”
She looks at you for a long moment, then back at the babies. “I know. I’m just out of practice believing that.”
By noon, your mother has arranged a consultation with a family law attorney named Vanessa Keating, a woman in her forties with sharp eyes, impeccable posture, and the air of someone who has professionally dismantled richer people than anyone in the room. Clara meets with her privately for nearly two hours while you pace the library downstairs, pretending to read emails and failing spectacularly.
When Vanessa finally emerges, she motions for you and Helen to join them.
