Chapter 5 - Sisterhood and Sanctuary
Paige’s basement had two small bedrooms, a kitchenette, and large garden windows that let in the afternoon sun. It was cramped compared to our four-bedroom suburban home, but the moment the door closed behind us, the tension that had lingered over our lives for years vanished.
That night, after dinner, I sat on the pull-out couch with Ella, Rosie, and Molly.
Molly was busy coloring a picture of a baby wearing a superhero cape, completely oblivious to legal battles or family trusts. But Ella and Rosie sat close, their shoulders touching mine.
“Mom?” Ella began quietly. “Is Daddy divorcing us?”
The question felt like a physical blow, but I kept my voice steady, wrapping an arm around both of them.
“Daddy has a lot of growing up to do, Ella. But a parent never divorces their children. What happened on Saturday was not about you, or Rosie, or Molly, or the baby. It was about Daddy’s own fears and Grandma’s bad ideas. None of it is your fault.”
“Grandma Carol said boys are stronger,” Rosie muttered, tracing a pattern on the sofa fabric. “She said boys don’t cry and they carry the family forward.”
“Look at me, Rosie,” I commanded gently, tipping her chin up until her brown eyes met mine. “Who took care of you when you had pneumonia last winter? Who worked fifty hours a week while studying for her business degree? Who carries life inside her body for nine months? Women are made of steel, Rosie. You and your sisters are the greatest treasure this world could ever give me. You don’t need to prove your worth to anyone by being a boy. You are whole, perfect, and enough exactly as you are.”
Ella let out a shaky breath, and suddenly she was sobbing into my shoulder. The quiet, stoic ten-year-old who had tried so hard to be the perfect daughter finally let go. I held her tight, feeling the fierce, protective fire ignite in my chest.
No court, no trust fund, and no patriarch would ever convince these girls they were second best.
Later that evening, while the girls slept soundly, Paige brought two cups of tea to the kitchen table.
“I called an old colleague from my firm,” Paige said, sliding a business card across the wood. “Her name is Diana Vance. No relation to Dennis’s lawyer Arthur, thank God. Diana specializes in high-net-worth forensic divorce and asset concealment. She’s ruthless, brilliant, and she hates bullies.”
I looked at the card, then pushed my laptop toward Paige.
“Before I meet Diana, I need to show you something I found in our personal cloud backups,” I said.
On the screen was an old, scanned contract from eight years ago, buried in a folder marked *Tax Archive 2016*.
When Nathan’s father had faced tax liens and supply-chain collapse during the recession, Dennis had taken a private loan from my maternal inheritance—one hundred and twenty thousand dollars left to me by my grandmother. In exchange, Dennis had signed an informal promissory note converting the debt into a twelve-percent non-dilutable equity stake in Walsh Building Supply if the loan was not repaid in cash within seven years.
Dennis had never repaid the money. He had simply assumed that because I was married to Nathan, the debt had dissolved into marital goodwill.
Paige gasped as she read the legal language. “Erin... did Dennis ever execute a formal release of this note?”
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“Never,” I said, a grim smile touching my lips. “He thought women were bad at business. He never even registered the expiration date.”
***
