Chapter 4 - Believe Me FirstMy mother, Deborah, lived in Cincinnati and had spent most of my marriage telling me Preston was "difficult but successful," as though success excused everything else. He earned more than I did. Owned a consulting firm. Wore expensive watches. Remembered everyone's birthday at family dinners. To outsiders, he was organized, generous, ambitious. To me, he was the man who once removed my access to online banking because I questioned a $6,000 withdrawal.
My mother called Genevieve's house after dinner. "Naomi, marriage is hard," she said.
"So is labor."
Silence.
"He said you left without telling him where his child was."
"Our child."
"You know what I mean."
"No. I know exactly what he means."
She sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
For once, I knew. "Believe me before he explains me to you."
She didn't answer immediately. Then, more quietly: "Tell me what happened."
So I did. All of it. When I reached the part about Preston tossing fifteen dollars onto the counter, my mother stopped interrupting. When I told her about the bank transfers, she asked me to repeat the amount.
"Forty-three thousand seven hundred."
"And you didn't know?"
"No."
Another silence. Then she asked, "Do you need money?"
I started crying. Not because I needed it. Because it was the first practical question anyone in my family had asked without telling me what I should feel.
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"I'm okay for now," I said.
"All right. Then if that changes, you call me."
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