Chapter 3 - The Relocation Folder
Patrick did not answer. Instead, he opened the door, offered me his hand, and said the wedding planner was looking for us.
I took off my wedding band and placed it on the desk.
“Anna, don't do this in the middle of a misunderstanding.”
“Then explain it.”
He glanced toward the hall. “I got a call from his office on Tuesday. Somebody said Marcello wanted to speak to you. I told them you were getting married. I thought it would protect you.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you were finally happy.”
I'd been happy. That was the worst part. Patrick had helped Mia practice riding her bicycle. He remembered which blankets she needed when she had nightmares. He'd sat with my mother during hospice visits. It was easier to see an enemy in someone who had never been kind.
“You don't get to decide what I can bear,” I said.
He put his hand on the doorframe, blocking the exit without touching me. “Your ex showed up with a microphone and humiliated you in front of everyone you love. And you're acting like I'm the problem.”
“He was wrong,” I said. “And you still don't get to hide his phone calls.”
Mia was seated with Celia near the garden fountain. She had cake icing on her chin and was drawing another purple figure on a paper napkin.
“Are we still going on the boat?” she asked.
Our honeymoon had included a short family trip to Tybee Island. Mia had chosen the boat ride and had been talking about it for months.
“Not today, sweetheart.”
“Because I said Daddy?”
“No. Because the grown-ups need to work some things out.”
“You always say that when you are sad.”
I sat beside her, careful of the dress. “I am sad about some things. But I'm not sad you asked.”
A wedding guest stopped us on the way out. She held up her phone. “Anna, I'm so sorry. Somebody posted a video from the steps. It's everywhere in the neighborhood group.”
The video began with Marcello saying the wedding was a lie. It ended just before my answer to Mia, making it appear as though he'd exposed a cheating bride. The caption was worse. I asked the guest not to share it. By evening it had been copied three times.
Marcello called Celia and asked whether there was anything he could do. I told her to pass on a single request: a public apology for involving Mia. An hour later, he posted one. He didn't identify her or discuss paternity. He said he'd confronted a private family matter in a public place and that the child and her mother deserved privacy. Some people praised him. Others mocked him. It didn't erase the video, but I noticed he'd used the word child rather than daughter.
The next morning I visited an attorney named Lydia Park, recommended by Celia's sister. Lydia listened without interrupting as I described the letters, the threat, the wedding and Patrick's admission.
“First,” she said, “we should protect Mia's routine. No sudden moves, no public allegations, no assumptions about custody. If both adults agree, we can arrange reliable DNA testing and talk about a gradual introduction.”
“Can Patrick stop me from talking to Marcello?”
“Not simply because he married you. A stepparent doesn't automatically acquire parental rights. But he may still make things difficult, and you need to be thoughtful about how you respond.”
Lydia said we could review anything I'd signed and any drafts Patrick had shown me. Then she asked whether I felt safe going home.
“Yes,” I said automatically.
She let the silence sit there.
“I don't know,” I admitted.
After the meeting, I collected Mia from Celia and drove home. Patrick's car was in the driveway, although he'd told me he was going to Charleston for a business meeting. The dining table was covered with binders from our wedding and a folder I'd never seen before.
Across its cover were the words FAMILY RELOCATION PLAN.
Patrick came in from the kitchen. “We can talk about that.”
Inside were school brochures from Raleigh, a lease application, and a typed schedule proposing that Mia change schools two weeks after the wedding.
“You told me we were staying here,” I said.
“We discussed options.”
“We discussed them. We did not agree.”
He reached for the folder. A glossy photograph slipped out: Marcello outside my mother's old house, dated six weeks before the wedding.
Patrick saw it and stopped moving.
“Why,” I asked, “have you been having him followed?”
May you like
Patrick lowered himself into a chair.
“Because,” he said, “somebody else was already watching you.”
