Chapter 8 - Kelly's Flight
Kelly landed in Dallas on Friday afternoon carrying one overnight bag and more anger than I'd ever seen her hold. She didn't waste any of it on Maya.
She knelt at Ruth's kitchen table and asked, "Would you like a hug, or should I sit here?"
Maya climbed into her mother's lap. For ten minutes they didn't say much. That was fine. Every adult in Maya's life had been saying too much.
Later, Kelly and I sat on Ruth's porch. Our divorce had been civil enough to make both of us complacent. We shared holiday calendars and school expenses. I sent photographs. Kelly sent videos. Neither of us asked why Maya grew quieter on every call.
"I thought you were managing," Kelly said.
"I thought Tiffany was managing."
"That's not the same thing."
"I know."
We made three decisions without pretending they fixed everything. Maya would stay somewhere she chose while we sorted out the house. We would both speak directly with the school. And nobody would ask her to perform her pain for a camera, a lawyer, or a relative.
Kelly studied the dates in my printed emails. "Some of these replies were sent while you and I were talking in person at her birthday party."
I checked. She was right. My account showed a message sent at 6:18 p.m., telling Kelly that Maya didn't want calls that week. At 6:18, I had been carrying a cake across the backyard.
"Your phone was on the picnic table," Kelly remembered. "Tiffany had it. You asked her to take pictures."
The betrayal was ordinary enough to make it worse: I had handed her the device myself.
May you like
Kelly scrolled farther. Her mouth tightened.
"Greg, the messages didn't just keep me away," she said. "They were asking me to sign something."
