Chapter 10 - The Crib My Father Built
The crib needed work.
One rail was loose.
The varnish had yellowed.
Current safety standards meant parts had to be modified before it could be used.
I took it to a carpenter who specialized in restoring heirloom furniture.
He looked at me over his glasses.
"For a grandchild?"
"My son."
"When's he due?"
"Five weeks."
The carpenter ran a hand along the wood.
"Your father built this?"
"Yes."
"He knew what he was doing."
I almost laughed.
"My father was a lawyer."
"So?"
The man shrugged.
"People are more than one thing."
That sentence stayed with me.
I wondered what Clara believed I was now.
Cheater.
Liar.
Lawyer.
Father.
Fraud.
Maybe people were more than one thing.
But sometimes the worst thing you did became the loudest.
Two days later, the firm terminated me.
The partnership vote was unanimous again.
Thomas called before the formal letter arrived.
"I wanted you to hear it from me."
I stood beside the small apartment window.
"Okay."
"The firm is buying out your capital interest subject to offsets."
"Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
I almost smiled.
"Sorry."
Thomas sighed.
"The bar has been notified."
I closed my eyes.
"Expected."
"Morrison has retained separate counsel to evaluate whether your disclosure affected negotiations."
"Did it?"
"We don't know yet."
"How is he?"
"Angry."
"He should be."
Thomas paused.
"You're making this disturbingly easy."
"I spent months making everything else difficult."
Silence.
Then Thomas asked, "Do you want to know what he said?"
"Who?"
"Morrison."
I swallowed.
"Yes."
"He said he trusted you because you talked about your wife all the time."
That hurt in a way I hadn't expected.
"What?"
Thomas continued.
"You used to tell clients Clara kept you grounded."
I sat down.
"I remember."
"Apparently Morrison remembered too."
I closed my eyes.
I had spent years using my marriage as evidence of character.
Photographs in my office.
Stories at dinners.
"My wife teaches second grade."
"My wife keeps me humble."
"My wife is the smart one."
I had borrowed Clara's goodness to strengthen my reputation.
Then betrayed her privately.
Thomas's voice softened.
"I'm sorry, Nathan."
"Don't be."
"I mean about everything."
"I know."
After we hung up, I received an email from Samantha Ellis.
Clara was filing for legal separation.
Not divorce.
The distinction gave me no comfort.
Under state law, legal separation allowed financial and custody orders while keeping the marriage legally intact.
Maybe Clara needed time.
Maybe pregnancy made immediate divorce too much.
Maybe she hadn't decided.
I refused to turn uncertainty into hope.
David reviewed the petition.
"She's asking for primary physical custody initially."
"Agree."
He looked at me.
"You don't want to discuss a shared schedule?"
"The baby isn't even born."
"True."
"And if she breastfeeds, he needs to be with her."
David studied me.
"You understand agreeing now doesn't mean you're giving up future rights."
"I know."
"Do you want visitation?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll negotiate something gradual."
I nodded.
He flipped pages.
"She's also asking for the house."
"Agree."
"Temporary support."
"Agree."
"Separate control of certain accounts."
"Agree."
David set down his pen.
"Nathan."
"What?"
"My job is to represent your interests."
"I know."
"You're allowed to have interests."
I looked at him.
"My son being safe is my interest."
"Clara being financially secure is my interest."
"Not forcing a legal war while she's eight months pregnant is my interest."
David leaned back.
"Fine."
He nodded.
"Then we'll approach it cooperatively."
That afternoon, the carpenter called.
The crib was ready.
I asked Rachel if I could deliver it.
She checked with Clara.
The answer came twenty minutes later.
YES.
BUT SHE DOESN'T WANT YOU INSIDE.
I drove to the house.
The crib was wrapped carefully in blankets.
Rachel opened the garage.
I unloaded it.
Clara appeared in the doorway.
She wore leggings and an oversized sweater.
Her belly seemed larger.
For a moment, every instinct in my body wanted to cross the distance.
Kiss her.
Touch our son.
Pretend ordinary intimacy still existed.
I stayed beside the crib.
"It's restored."
I said.
Clara looked at the wood.
Her face softened.
"Your dad's?"
I nodded.
"He wrote something underneath."
"I remember."
She touched the rail.
Her fingers traced the grain.
"It looks beautiful."
"The carpenter replaced the unsafe hardware."
"Thank you."
I swallowed.
"You don't have to thank me."
She looked at me.
"Not everything has to be punishment, Nathan."
I didn't know what to say.
Rachel quietly disappeared into the house.
Clara remained in the garage.
"I heard about the firm."
My jaw tightened.
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
I stared at her.
"You don't need to be."
"I can be sorry you're suffering and still believe you caused it."
I nodded.
"That's fair."
Her hand rested on her belly.
The baby moved.
I saw it.
My eyes fixed on the spot.
Clara noticed.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she walked closer.
"He's been kicking all morning."
I couldn't breathe.
She stopped in front of me.
"Do you want to feel?"
I looked at her.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
I raised my hand slowly.
She guided it to the side of her stomach.
The baby kicked beneath my palm.
Once.
Then again.
My vision blurred instantly.
"Hey."
I whispered.
Clara looked away.
I kept my hand still.
Another kick.
Our son.
Alive.
Strong.
Oblivious to the mess waiting outside the womb.
"I'm sorry."
I whispered.
Clara tensed.
I immediately removed my hand.
"Not to you."
I said.
She looked at me.
"I was talking to him."
Her face broke.
She covered her mouth.
I stepped backward.
I wanted to hold her.
I didn't.
She wiped her cheeks.
"He's going to love you."
She said.
My throat closed.
"I don't know."
"I do."
She looked at me with heartbreaking certainty.
"Because I will never teach him to hate you."
That was when I cried.
Not because she had forgiven me.
She hadn't.
Because even after everything I had done, Clara was still thinking about what kind of father our son deserved.
I nodded.
"I won't teach him anything bad about you either."
She gave a small, sad smile.
"I don't think you're going to have much material."
For half a second, the old Clara was there.
Dry humor.
Gentle eyes.
Then the moment disappeared.
She stepped back.
"I need to lie down."
"Of course."
"Nathan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for the crib."
She went inside.
I stood beside my father's work.
FOR MY CHILDREN.
AND THEIRS.
I ran my fingers over the words.
My father had cheated on my mother.
I had cheated on Clara.
For the first time, I wondered whether inheritance was more than wood and money.
Maybe some things passed down because nobody had the courage to stop carrying them.
I decided my son would not inherit this.
May you like
Not if I could help it.
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