He Left Me at Forty-Eight, Then Wanted Me Back novel · Chapter 3 of 16

Chapter 3: Screenshots

Joanna confronts Madison's post, saves the proof, finds her old sketches, and learns the savings account is nearly empty.

I hung up on Carol without saying goodbye.

Then I opened Madison's page.

The new story was a photo of rain on a car window.

White letters across it.

"Some women build their whole life around a man, then act shocked when he leaves."

Under it, smaller.

"Praying for my family while we deal with someone who isn't stable right now."

No name.

It didn't need one.

It had been up two hours.

Carol had seen it.

So had half the church and every mother from Caleb's school.

My hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone on the stairs.

Madison was at the kitchen island eating yogurt out of the carton.

I held the screen up in front of her face.

"You told people I'm unstable?"

She glanced at it and went straight to defensive.

"I didn't say your name."

"You didn't have to. Carol Pettus called me."

"I'm protecting Dad. People are going to talk."

"Protecting him from what? The truth?"

"Stop acting like you're the only victim here."

It rang around the kitchen.

"I'm the only person in this house who didn't get a vote."

Tyler came in through the garage halfway through it.

He'd left work early.

He'd seen the post too.

"Mom, stop attacking her."

I laughed.

I couldn't help it.

"She told the whole town I'm crazy."

"She's getting ahead of it. Controlling the story."

"The story."

"People are going to take sides. Somebody had to say something first."

Caleb was in the doorway.

Pale. Quiet.

Again, nobody stood next to me.

I looked from Tyler to Madison.

"You don't want me to be hurt. You want me to be quiet so this is easier to look at."

"That's not what I said," Tyler said.

"It's what you keep asking for."

Madison picked up her phone.

"If you'd stop turning every conversation into a trial."

"A trial."

Something about the word settled me.

Glenn already had a lawyer.

Madison already had a story.

Tyler already had his reasons.

For twenty-five years I'd cleaned every mess before anyone else had to see it.

Maybe that was the mistake.

I took a screenshot of her post.

Then one of the champagne story, with Tyler's heart on it.

Madison's eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping a copy."

"Why?"

"Because I'm done pretending things didn't happen just because remembering them makes somebody uncomfortable."

Tyler shook his head.

"This is insane."

"No," I said. "It's new."

I walked upstairs.

I didn't slam the door.

I emailed the screenshots to myself so nobody could delete them and tell me later I'd imagined it.

Then I went into the closet and reached behind the winter blankets.

My old leather portfolio was still there.

I hadn't opened it since Tyler was born.

I sat on the carpet and untied the string.

Hotel lobbies.

A seafood restaurant with a curved bar.

A little cocktail room with green velvet booths and brass lamps.

Lighting notes in pencil.

Paint chips taped to the corners, gone pale.

I'd been twenty-two.

I'd had two semesters left of interior design at Southern Miss.

Then Tyler.

Then Glenn's company needed someone to do the books for free.

Then Madison. Then Caleb.

I always said I'd go back next year.

Next year had lasted twenty-four years.

On the corner of the lobby sketch, younger me had written a note in blue ink.

"Make a room people don't want to leave."

I laughed out loud on the closet floor.

I'd spent half my life making people not want to leave.

It hadn't worked.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

Glenn's voice.

Glenn's footsteps in the hall.

He didn't call my name.

He talked to the kids low in the kitchen for ten minutes.

Then his steps came up the stairs and stopped outside the bedroom.

Something slid under the door.

A white envelope.

His handwriting on the front.

"TEMPORARY TERMS."

I heard him go back down.

I didn't open it.

Not yet.

First I opened our bank app.

I hadn't checked it in weeks.

Glenn always handled the big accounts.

I only watched the grocery money.

The joint savings account was supposed to hold ninety-six thousand dollars.

Twenty-five years of coupons and hand-me-downs had gone into it.

I pressed the account.

The little wheel spun.

The balance came up.

Three thousand, eight hundred dollars.

I scrolled down.

Transfer after transfer, all to Chastain Development.

Fourteen months of them.

The first one was dated the week of our anniversary.

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