Part 3: The Note Under the DoorThe Daughter at the Door

"Are you all set for school?"

Yvonne lowered her head and mumbled, "Yeah."

"What grade will you be in?" I asked.

"11th."

I inquired politely, "Can you keep up with the classes?"

Her hands paused mid-movement. "I'm doing okay."

I added some more vegetables to her plate. "It's getting cold. There's a thick blanket in the guest room closet."

She didn't answer or look up, spending the entire meal focused on the plate in front of her.

Rosalind didn't say a word either.

This mother-daughter duo was painfully quiet.

Linda cleared the dishes after dinner, while I opened the refrigerator for some fruit.

I cut the orange into eight even wedges and arranged them symmetrically on a white porcelain plate.

I heard the sound of footsteps coming to a stop behind me.

"You're not going to ask how I'm doing? You don't care that she's out there fooling around?" Yvonne's voice was slightly hoarse as she questioned me sharply.

"As far as I'm concerned, that's between the two of you. My only responsibility is to go along with whatever Ms. Young decides," I replied blithely.

"You really don't care? Not even a bit?" she pressed.

I turned off the faucet.

Then, I turned around, dried my hands with a towel, and gave her a perfectly pleasant smile. "Kid, this is a marriage of convenience."

I hung the towel back on the rack, my smile taking on a knowing edge. "Caring too much would be a breach of contract."

She didn't say anything else. Instead, her eyes stayed on my face, as if she were trying to figure something out.

I'd just picked up the fruit plate and turned to leave when I saw Rosalind standing in the kitchen doorway.

…

After that day, Rosalind's appearances at home became noticeably less frequent.

When Linda asked how many place settings to put out, I didn't even hesitate to tell her two.

Even though the lady of the house was gone, no one seemed to find it strange that the husband and the illegitimate daughter were living together in peace.

Andrew Collins, the lawyer I'd contacted, sent me a document that Friday afternoon.

"Mr. Shaw, here's the preliminary list of evidence for the divorce proceedings. Please review it."

I opened it.

Item Seven read, "The wife concealed the existence of a child born outside the marriage, constituting a major marital fraud."

"Mr. Shaw."

I discreetly closed the document at the sound of Yvonne calling for me.

She stood by the patio door, staring at me intently. "What were you looking at just now?"

I turned my phone face down. "Work."

She didn't move.

"You're lying. Rosalind's been supporting your lifestyle ever since you married her. So, what job are you even talking about? Mr. Shaw, are you going to divorce Rosalind because of me? You can't divorce her!" she said hotly.

I looked at her. "And whyever not?"

She turned her back to me, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Because…"

That girl. She was killing me with the suspense. Even worse, she just turned around and walked away without saying a word.

She got up early the next day.

I sat on the couch going through some documents, while she watched me like a hawk.

When I went to get some water, she would follow me to the kitchen like a lost duckling.

When I walked back to the couch, she would follow me back there.

Finally, I had enough. So, I closed my notebook and asked the question that's been burning the tip of my tongue, "Yvonne, what's wrong?"

She didn't tell me anything. She just repeated what she'd said the day before with an additional, "You can't divorce her."

I stared at her, somewhat bewildered. "Wasn't the whole reason you came here to tell me she was cheating was to wreck our marriage?"

She pressed her lips together. "Yes, but…"

"Then, why are you trying to stop me?"

She lowered her eyes and fell silent.

I got up, went to the study, and shut the door, leaving her outside.

A piece of paper was pushed through the gap beneath the door five minutes later.

It had been folded in half, but I could tell that it'd been torn out from a notebook.

Yvonne's handwriting was so heavy that I noticed that she could've easily torn through the paper in two places.