Seven Candles

Before meeting my father, I stopped by Claire’s — my closest friend since university, the only one who had stayed in regular contact since I married Ryan, as most of my old friends had drifted away over the years, our gatherings now made up entirely of Ryan’s friends and business partners.

Claire opened the door and knew from one look at my face that something was wrong.

“Emily, you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

I told her everything, from the cake to the slap to the iPad, my voice flat and even, as though reading a report — perhaps because if I let the emotion in, I wouldn’t be able to get through the whole story.

Claire sat and listened, her hand gripping mine tightly on her kitchen table, and when I finished, she finally spoke, her voice shaking with anger on my behalf.

“Do you remember who you were at university? You told me once you’d never let anyone make decisions for your life. The Emily from eight years ago wouldn’t let this happen a second time.”

I stayed silent, because I knew she was right, but I also knew I had lost too many years failing to see it myself.

“I don’t know where to start,” I said, my voice breaking for the first time since the night of Noah’s birthday.

“Start by telling someone,” Claire said, “you just did that with me. Next step, tell your father. He’s the only person in your life who never once made you ask permission just to be yourself.”

Claire was also the one who gave me the number of a divorce lawyer, “just in case you ever need it, not now, but keep it,” she said, pressing the slip of paper into my hand before I left.

I didn’t think I would need it so soon.