“It’s happening, Grant,” I said, standing near the hallway, arms crossed, steadier than I’d expected to feel in this exact moment.
“Ivy, what is all this?” He gestured at the coffee table like it might rearrange itself if he stared hard enough. “Is this — are you serious right now?”
“I asked you to be quieter during labor,” I said. “You left six days after I brought three newborns home because it was too stressful for your mental health. You called twice in two weeks, both times from somewhere with a beach in the background.”
“I told you I needed to reset,” he said. “I told you—”
“You told me a lot of things,” I said. “Naomi kept track of most of them, actually. Times, dates, screenshots. It’s all right there on the table if you’d like to review it.”
⸻
Grant looked at Naomi, standing quietly by the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, wearing the same steady expression I imagined she wore in courtrooms.
“You did this,” he said. “This is you, isn’t it. Turning her against me.”
“Nobody turned anyone against you, Grant,” Naomi said evenly. “You did this part all on your own. I just made sure it was documented properly, in case it ever needed to be.”
“Ivy,” Grant said, turning back to me, his voice dropping into something closer to pleading now. “Come on. I made a mistake. I panicked. New dads panic sometimes.”
