Chapter 2Low-Maintenance Wife

Henry padded out of his bedroom, his navy school uniform jacket draped over one forearm.

"Mom, Mrs. Gable posted on the parent portal again. She needs that family activity photo uploaded today."

Lily told him gently, "The photos are on your dad's phone. From now on, take school reminders directly to your dad."

Henry was chewing on a piece of toast. Hearing that, his face crumpled.

"Why Dad again? He always forgets everything. Like the school field day—everyone else had picnic blankets and lawn chairs, and I was the only one sitting on the grass."

Irritated, I snapped a napkin from the holder and tossed it toward him.

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

As soon as the words slipped out, I felt petty.

I hadn't forgotten the blanket on purpose.

Lily had been out of town on a three-day business trip back then. She had emailed me the packing checklist, and I had forwarded it to my assistant to order everything.

My assistant missed a line.

When Lily came back, she had quietly handled the fallout, and I never gave it another thought.

Hearing my son hold it against me now, my knee-jerk reaction was to offer Lily an excuse.

Instead, she walked over to the entryway and pulled her shoes from the rack.

Suddenly, I looked at Henry.

"If Mom and Dad didn't live under the same roof anymore, who would you want to live with?"

Lily's fingers paused on her laces.

Henry glanced at her, then back at me.

"Are you guys fighting?"

"No. Dad's just asking."

He made his choice in a heartbeat, without the slightest hesitation.

"With Dad. Dad lets me play on the console, and Mom's always saying I can't have fried chicken for dinner."

Those words couldn't have been easy for Lily to hear.

Yet she didn't look wounded, nor did she press him on whether he meant it.

She tied her sneakers and reminded him to finish his breakfast.

Henry seemed to sense he had said the wrong thing.

He held his half-eaten toast, timidly offering, "Mom can still come visit me, right?"

I stared at Lily. "You hear that?"

She unclipped her house key from her ring and laid it flat on the entry console.

"I heard him. So don't ask him a second time."

I stood up.

"If you've got an issue, take it out on me. Don't be spiteful to a kid. How old is he? What does he understand?"

"You're the one who asked him first."

Her retort backed me into a corner.

I hadn't weaponized the boy on purpose.

I simply wanted her to grasp that a divorce wasn't something resolved by two signatures on a piece of paper.

Henry still had years of school ahead of him. Middle school was around the corner. Should we move closer to the district? Which school program should he enroll in? Did any of that not require her?

Yet as those arguments gathered on the tip of my tongue, I realized they all sounded like admissions of helplessness—like proof that the moment she walked out, I wouldn't be able to keep our life afloat.

I shifted tactics.

"You have to give me some time. Everything was fine yesterday, and today you drop divorce papers on me. Who processes that overnight?"

Lily replied evenly, "Take your time with the agreement. I'm moving out next Monday."

She pulled the front door open and called for Henry.

As our son swung his backpack over his shoulders, he remembered something, darted back, and caught my arm, his eyes wide with hope.

"Dad, can you drop me off today?"

I checked my watch. Eight-twenty.

Driving him to school and heading into downtown would guarantee I missed the start of the executive sync.

"Let Mom take you today. Dad has work."

Henry's lower lip immediately pushed out into a pout.

Lily didn't jump in, nor did she smooth things over for me the way she used to.

She merely stood outside the threshold, waiting.

A sudden wave of irritation flared in my chest. I snatched my car keys off the tray.

"Fine. I'll drive."

In the elevator, Henry was still buzzing because I had agreed to drive him, asking if we could swing by GameStop tonight for a new cartridge.

I said yes.

When the elevator hit the ground floor, Lily stepped out without glancing back to remind me not to make empty promises.

She always used to do that.

Back then, I thought she took a child far too seriously.

Now that she had let go, I felt like a man who had made a fool of himself in front of an audience of one.