I inhaled slowly.
Then I laughed.
Not a normal laugh. A villain laugh. A prime-time revenge-drama laugh.
“Kids!” I shouted. “Owen! Lily! Come here now!”
My children thundered down the stairs.
“What happened, Mom?” asked seven-year-old Owen.
“It turns out your father is a liar, and we are going shopping. Aggressive shopping.”
“Seriously?” Nine-year-old Lily could already smell freedom. “Can we go to the toy store?”
“Today, sweetheart, we are going EVERYWHERE.”
I went upstairs, opened my drawer, and took out the credit card. The black one. The one Daniel kept “for emergencies.”
Well, this was an emergency.
An emergency involving my dignity.
I texted him:
“Brian called. Very convenient, this ‘urgent project’ of yours.”
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Me: “No need to answer. The kids and I went out. Also because of an ‘emergency.’”
“Mom, are you crying?” Owen asked from the back seat.
