Love within the plan
I’d been groomed to be a Hudson wife since I
was a kid. At twenty, I married Holden. At
twenty–four, I gave birth to our son, Henry.
Henry was a lot like Holden, quiet and reserved,
not particularly close to me. Every night, I’d
bring them both a glass of warm milk before
bed. But one night, Holden knocked his glass
over, and Henry secretly poured his down the
drain. That’s when I started to feel…done.
When I handed Holden the divorce papers, he
frowned, annoyed. “All this, over that?”
“Yeah,” I said, “all this, over that.”
“What about Henry?” he asked, his face settling
back into its usual impassiveness, all business.
“What are you planning to do about our son?”
I sat across from him, feeling like a guest at his
negotiating table. “I’m giving up custody,” I said
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calmly. “I’m also transferring the house on Elm
Street to his name. Consider it compensation
for child support.” He was a Hudson, after all.
He belonged with Holden more than he ever
belonged with me.
Holden looked down at me, his eyes
unreadable. Like he couldn’t comprehend why I
was making such a fuss. “Amelia,” he said, his
voice softening, “If it’s about the milk, I
apologize. You know I was drunk last night. I
didn’t mean to do that.” He kept explaining
patiently, convinced that the spilled milk was
the root of the problem.
He’d come home late from a work dinner. I’d
been dozing on the couch, woken by the draft
of cold air he brought in with him. I got up, saw
him taking off his jacket and rubbing his
forehead, and immediately went to the kitchen
to get the milk I’d kept warm for him. We
weren’t exactly lovey–dovey, but we maintained
a civil facade. But last night, I’d asked, “Who
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were you with? That perfume smells familiar.”
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That’s when he’d let go of the glass. I hadn’t
reacted fast enough. It slipped through my
fingers, shattering on the floor, the sound
echoing in the warm light of the room,
shattering the quiet too. Holden’s face
hardened. He looked at me coldly and said,
“Amelia, you’re crossing a line. Don’t wait up for
me anymore. And you don’t need to bring me
milk.”
And Henry, after seeing his father’s reaction,
had secretly poured his own milk away. When I
caught him, he stood in the doorway,
apologizing with the same lack of emotion.
“Sorry, Mom. Dad didn’t want his, so I didn’t
want mine either.”
To them, father and son, it was a trivial
incident. And I wasn’t supposed to make a big
deal out of it.
I didn’t bother explaining further. I signed the
papers, hired a lawyer, and ended it.
Holden talked about asset division, but I barely listened. I went upstairs to pack. He watched
- me. “Amelia, the paperwork takes time. You
don’t have to rush out. You can keep the
house.”
