Chapter 12 - Desperate Calls Across the Atlantic
“Clara! Clara, answer the damn phone!”
Eric’s voice on the voicemail was completely unrecognizable. The arrogant, booming authority was completely gone, replaced by a ragged, screeching panic that sounded like a man drowning in quicksand.
“Clara, they kicked us out! The sheriff came with movers and threw everything on the lawn! Mom is having a panic attack at a motel off the highway, and Madison is having contractions from the stress! You can’t do this to me! I’m your husband! We made vows! Call Nathan Cross and tell him to cancel the sale right now! I’ll forgive you for this, Clara, I swear I will! Just fix it! I have no money! The cards don't work! Clara, please!”
BEEP.
I took a sip of my hot tea and clicked the next message.
It was Diane. Her voice was shrill, vibrating with pure venom and terror.
“You ungrateful, evil witch! You planned this! You smiled in my face and cooked dinner while you were plotting to throw a pregnant girl and an elderly woman onto the street! You think you’re smart? My lawyer is going to drag you back to Georgia in handcuffs! We are suing you for emotional distress, fraud, and theft of Eric’s marital property! You will end up in prison, Clara! Do you hear me? Prison!”
BEEP.
I clicked the third message. It was a text from Madison:
“Clara please. I’m sorry about the nursery furniture. I’m sorry about the laundry. We’re staying at a gross Quality Inn with bugs. Eric can’t even afford the room for tomorrow night. My baby has nowhere to sleep. Please send me five thousand dollars. Just for the baby. Please.”
I looked at the messages with a calm, steady pulse.
Where was this humility when they were throwing my possessions into boxes? Where was this compassion when Diane was demanding I act as their unpaid servant? Where was Eric’s concern for his marriage vows when he was screaming in my face to "watch my mouth" and know my place?
They didn't regret hurting me. They only regretted that I had stopped allowing them to feast on my life.
I opened a blank message, addressed it to Eric Miller’s number, and typed a single, final response:
“Dear Eric,
Three weeks ago, you stood in my dining room and told me to ‘watch my mouth’ and know my place. I listened to your advice.
My place is Senior Vice President of European Regulatory Compliance in London, living in a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park with two million dollars in liquid capital.
Your place is on the curb outside a budget motel with the family you chose over your wife.
All future communications must go through my legal counsel, Nathan Cross and Marcus Vance. Any direct contact from you, your mother, or your sister will result in an immediate international restraining order.
Goodbye, Eric.”
I hit send.
May you like
Then, I permanently blocked every single one of their numbers, deleted my old social media accounts, and set my phone to Do Not Disturb.
I picked up my teacup, walked out onto the terrace into the crisp London night, and watched the stars shining above the city.
