I hesitate. “Chloe?” Even I’m not sure anymore.

“I will see if my husband can come to the door,” she says coldly. Or maybe it’s just the French accent. I really can’t tell. “He is busy with our children. Un moment.”

The door slams shut. As I regard the brass knocker, I hear her muffled voice, “Nicolas!” and then an angry flood of French words, from which I can make out only a bit, but did she just ask him if he was properly dressed?

Oh, god. I’ve been so stupid.

Again.

I turn away from the door, and as I do, my jacket catches on the railing post. There’s a tearing sound, but I can’t stop. I untangle my jacket, kick off the stroller’s brake pedals, and go back in the direction from which I came.

Downhill is easier.

At the bottom of the street, I turn right towards the T station.

Really there’s not a thought in my head. There is a huge, heavy pain in my chest, but not a single thought in my head. The sidewalks are crowded with shoppers, all the urbanites who have been cooped up in their apartments and are now out for air. They are slowing me down considerably. Holly sleeps on, oblivious. Every once in a while her binky quivers as she sucks automatically, dreaming of milk and clouds and happy mommies.

There are noises behind me, a disturbance. A fight, or someone hurt? I glance over my shoulder nervously, and try to pick up speed. Everyplace seems more dangerous these days. I just want to get us home now. Where we can be safe.

Suddenly the disturbance is right behind me, and I hear “Chloe!” as someone grabs my arm. I pull away, hard, terrified, but it’s Nick yelling “Chloe! Stop!”

Then I pull away harder.

He has no coat on, and he’s panting. Wouldn’t you think someone, anyone, would ask if I need help? A woman with a baby being accosted by a frantic man? But no, the crowds just step around us. We get one or two looks of annoyance for blocking the way.

“What?”

“I heard what happened. I’m so sorry. Simone is playing some kind of game. You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand all too well, Nick.” My voice is an iceberg. “Go back to your wife.”

“Ex-wife!” he roars. “Simone is here for Amelie’s concert and she wanted to stay with the kids. It’s the first time she’s ever done this. It’s not what you think!”

“That’s what you all say,” I hiss, with a bitterness I didn’t know was in me. “Go home to your wife, Nick. Go home to your family.”

I look down at my little angel.

“I’ve already got mine.”

And with that, I walk away.

Nick

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” I roar as I enter my own home, winded from running back, destroyed by the look on Chloe’s face and her final words to me.

That’s what you all say.

Jesus. She just lumped me in with that bastard ex of hers. My god.

I do not care that Simone’s recoiling, physically terrified, her impassive face now expressing nothing but sheer horror at...me.

At who I am right now. Right here.

The man she made me become.

“You told her I’m your husband!” I bellow at Simone, who gives me a look of pleading. “That’s a role you kicked me out of years ago. Get out. Get out of my house now.”

“Nick, you misunderstand.”

Funny. I just said that to Chloe. Deep rage makes me feel the need to apologize again. How anemic are those words. I let her go because there was nothing I could do in the moment.

Nothing I could say to make Chloe stay.

But I could come back here and right a wrong.

Simone puts together all the puzzle pieces of her face and suddenly, she’s back to being Simone, pulling on a pearl earring with impatience, as if I’m the one who has transgressed. “I told your little lover that—”

“I heard every word. I was right behind you. Don’t lie.”

“How dare you call me a—”

“Don’t dare me to do anything right now, Simone.”

Her face goes pale as fresh cream.

“You will leave. Get a hotel. We’ll tell the kids you needed some space. They won’t question it, because you’ve always needed space.” My temples pound with fury, my breathing still ragged around the edges from sprinting after Chloe, then racing back to get Simone before she could slip out and avoid the confrontation.

I need this.

I’ve needed this for years.

“You do not get to make this my fault, Nick!”

“I’m not making it your fault, Simone. You did that nicely all on your own.”

“Chloe – is that her name?—is worth all this?” She titters. “Good for you. Finally acting like a man.” She sniffs. “Nice to see you have it in you.”

That’s it.

Gloves off.

“You do not get to define my maleness, Simone. Not now, not ever. Damn it, you made me feel like less of a man for wanting to be more of a father!”

She blinks, hard, her elbow covering one breast as she twists her earring, a sure sign of stress in her. She did that exact movement the day she told me she was leaving. Perfect sleeveless dress, perfect lipstick, hair pulled back in a tight knot at the base of her neck, her skin flawless.

Execution, too. Rejection sounds so impersonal spoken in a second language, as if it’s just another lesson you need to learn. It’s almost pretty.

“We were young. You—you became obsessed with the children. You stopped paying attention to me, Nick. You were just a roommate suddenly. Up all night with the babies, arguing with me that they couldn’t be left to cry themselves to sleep, telling me that we didn’t need to go out, that the babies needed us more.”

“Because they did!”

“And meanwhile, my womanhood withered on the vine. You looked at me like a mother. Not as a desirable woman. Not as a romantic partner.”

“Because you were a mother! My God, Simone, you gave me the three greatest gifts of my entire life. You gave me my life’s purpose! I loved you even more for that.”

“I wanted to be your life’s purpose. Can’t you see? I gave you children and you cast me aside as if you were done.” Her eyes flash with indignity, as if my words are weapons designed to hurt, rather than explain.