I didn’t tell her about you, because I figured that she would confront him, of course, and I don’t want him to know that you exist. God forbid he wanted to be involved in some way—unlikely, given the kind of person he is, but it’s not a risk I want to take. I didn’t even tell her my name. I didn’t get into any specifics. I simply told her I’d met her husband and if I were her, I’d want to know that he was not a good husband. Or human.
And you know what she said? “I’m so sorry.” I thought she’d be furious with me, but it was the opposite. She felt sorry for me. She asked for no details. And she hung up quickly.
She already knew about him. And I knew then that your father was even worse than I realized.
There’s one other thing—she hung up quickly, but not before I heard something: a baby’s cry in the background. A cry that sounded just like yours—the cry of a newborn.
They have a baby, too. You have a half sibling out there in the world.
I know—it’s a lot to process.
Or maybe it was a friend’s baby, or a niece or nephew. No way to know for sure.
If it’s hers, theirs, though, a part of me is relieved for her. She isn’t alone. Just like me, she has someone who’s making her life worth living, even if her husband is a piece of crap.
I have to let it go. I need to focus on what matters, and that’s you. I just need to buck up and get him out of my head, forever. As far as we’re concerned, he doesn’t exist. From here on out. Okay?
I can’t help but worry about his wife, though. She sounded so . . . small. I wish there was something I could do for her.
Whew. What a mess, right? At least we’re in it together. Let’s try to get some sleep tonight, okay? I could really use it. My head is all fogged up right now.
Love you forever,
Mommy
Chapter Fourteen
Tuesday, October 6
The day crawled to 3:00 p.m. Clara had some major projectile spit-up when we got home from the park that concerned me a bit, so I was worried I’d have to call off our plans with Vanessa and Phoebe, but she seemed totally fine after that and didn’t have a fever or anything. We dozed together on the couch for a while, and when we woke up, she was hungry and smiley. I really didn’t want to cancel. I was desperate to spend time with Vanessa and try to figure out if she knew more about what had been going on with Isabel than she’d been letting on.
Vanessa’s apartment building on Seventy-Ninth Street and West End Ave.—right next to her dermatology practice—was magnificent. The doormen of her building looked more like the queen’s guard or squires or something. There was a massive courtyard with lush flowering hydrangeas shading deep iron benches. The doorman kept calling me “miss” and insisted on helping me manage the cobblestones with my stroller. I suddenly felt underdressed for this playdate, even though I was wearing my “fancy leggings” （SPANX brand, so not actually fancy） and a sweater and ankle boots, a slight step up from my dirty “casual leggings” from Old Navy and ancient crewneck Colgate sweatshirt.
Vanessa opened the door to her apartment and greeted me with a big smile, then grabbed my shoulder to pull me in for a cheek kiss. “Perfect timing! Come on in! Phoebe just woke up, so the girls can play.” The notion of three-month-olds playing was amusing to me; they would lie on the blanket together, putting toys in their mouths, staring up at the ceiling—whether they were even aware of the other one was questionable. But maybe on some level the socialization was beneficial, even important. Every other mom seemed to think so, judging from the plethora of pricey classes available in this neighborhood for infants, as I’d learned from all the recommendations on the Upper West Side Moms Facebook page.
The light in her apartment wafted over me and instantly made me feel calmer, as if I’d just taken a deep breath. I didn’t even have to leave my stroller in the hallway; there was plenty of room in her massive foyer, which opened into a spacious living room. Everything was bright and clean. While she did have baby gear in various places—a play mat on the floor, a Boppy cushion on the couch—her apartment was incredibly uncluttered for having a newborn. Vanessa was predictably put together in her own fancy leggings, which really did look fancy, and a camel-colored duster over a white turtleneck. She was barefoot, with perfectly pedicured smoke-colored toes. I was surprised, and relieved, when she offered wine—3:00 p.m. on a Tuesday could totally go either way, especially with someone as seemingly straight edge as Vanessa, but I was certainly ready for a glass.