Chapter 6 - The Wedding That Wasn't
The wedding was set for a Saturday. On the Thursday before it, Marcus Delaney was brought in for formal questioning by federal investigators. By Friday morning, his attorney had already reached out to the financial crimes unit with an offer to cooperate in exchange for reduced exposure.
Nathaniel found out about Delaney Friday afternoon. He called me at 4:17 p.m. I was in the middle of feeding my daughter. I put the call on speaker and kept my eyes on her.
"You destroyed it," he said, his voice cracking with something raw. "All of it. The wedding — Isabelle is devastated. She had absolutely nothing to do with any of this."
"I know," I said. "I'm sorry for her."
"You're sorry." The disbelief in his voice was real. "You filed a federal complaint. You turned my own mother against me. You—"
"Your mother cooperated because the alternative was worse," I said. "I didn't turn her against you, Nathaniel. You built something that was always going to collapse eventually. I just refused to keep waiting for it to fall on my daughter."
"I could have given you a fair settlement. If you'd just come to me directly—"
"You forged my name," I said. "There was never a version of this where we sat down and negotiated like civilized people."
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, the anger had drained out of his voice completely, replaced by something I hadn't heard from him in years — something close to honesty.
"I didn't think you'd ever find it," he said.
"I know you didn't."
"I thought after the divorce you'd move on. That you'd be too tired, too wrapped up in—" He stopped himself.
"In the baby you had no idea I was carrying," I finished for him.
Silence.
"She's beautiful," I said. "In case you were curious."
He didn't answer that.
"The venue's already been notified," I said. "The deposits are forfeit. I imagine walking that announcement back is going to be difficult." I paused. "For Isabelle's sake, and for the baby she's carrying, I'd suggest you spend the next few weeks being honest with her. She deserves to know exactly who she's building a life with."
"That's rich," he said bitterly, "coming from you."
"I'm not doing this for you," I said, and hung up.
I sat in the quiet of the living room afterward, my daughter warm against my chest, and I waited for the satisfaction I'd expected to feel. It didn't come — not the way I imagined. What I felt instead was simpler than that. Cleaner.
Renata Boyd called that evening.
"I heard Delaney's cooperating," she said.
"It looks that way."
"My attorney's reopening my case. The statute of limitations—" She stopped herself. "It might actually still be possible."
"I hope it is," I said. "You should have had this three years ago."
"Margaret." Her voice went careful. "Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Were you scared? At any point — did you think about just stopping?"
I looked down at my daughter's face. She was watching me with that unfocused, absolute attention newborns give to whoever happens to be holding them.
"Once," I said. "Yes."
"What kept you going?"
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"She did," I said. "I didn't want her growing up watching her mother accept something that was wrong."
Renata was quiet for a moment. "That's a good reason," she finally said.
