Chapter 3 - Seventy-Eight Weeks of SilenceNaomi's house stood on a narrow street in eastern Richmond, between a barber shop and a small brick church.
The porch railing needed paint.
The kitchen window rattled whenever trucks passed.
Marcus hadn't been there before.
He knew that shame would remain with him longer than the humiliation of his abandoned wedding.
His son lived here.
And Marcus had never bothered to see it.
Eli had fallen asleep in the back seat of Naomi's car during the drive home. He now rested upstairs beneath a blanket decorated with planets.
Marcus sat at the kitchen table opposite Naomi.
She placed the brown envelope between them.
"Before you open it," she said, "I need you to understand something."
He looked at her.
"I didn't ask Eli to say those things."
"I believe you."
"Don't say that just because you're frightened."
Marcus lowered his eyes.
"Then I'll say I should have believed you a long time ago."
Naomi folded her arms.
"That's closer."
For several seconds, only the refrigerator hummed.
Then she opened the envelope.
Inside were photocopies of handwritten letters, mailing receipts, and a notebook filled with dates.
Marcus recognized her handwriting immediately.
The looping capital letters.
The way she crossed her sevens.
The little circles she sometimes drew instead of periods when she was exhausted.
"How many?" he asked.
"Seventy-eight."
He looked up.
"Seventy-eight letters?"
"One every week for eighteen months. The first few went to your office. Then to Alder House. Later, both."
Marcus touched the first page.
It was dated the week after their divorce became final.
Marcus, Eli keeps asking whether you remember the bedtime song you made up for him. I told him you do. I hope I wasn't lying.
He turned to another.
His teacher says he's afraid to draw families because he doesn't know where to put you.
Another.
He had a fever last night and asked me to call Daddy. I did. Your office said you were traveling.
Marcus remembered that week.
He had been in Richmond.
He had spent most of it working late at the office.
"Nobody told me," he whispered.
Naomi's face hardened.
"I know."
Then she pushed a second document toward him.
It was a printed email.
The sender appeared to be Marcus.
The message instructed Naomi to stop sending personal letters to the family office and communicate only through attorneys concerning custody.
Marcus read it twice.
"I didn't write this."
Naomi watched his face.
"That's what I hoped you'd say."
"Did you reply?"
"Three times. No answer."
He examined the email address.
It came from his executive account.
"I never sent it."
"Someone did."
Marcus reached for his phone.
Naomi caught his wrist.
"Don't call your mother."
He looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because every time I tried to prove something, she knew before I could finish."
Her voice shook despite her effort to control it.
"Evelyn always knew which lawyer I called. Which apartment I applied for. Which school I wanted Eli to attend."
Marcus frowned.
"How?"
"I don't know."
He leaned back.
For years, he had accepted his mother's explanation that Naomi was bitter about the divorce.
He had heard stories about unpaid bills, poor decisions, and embarrassing arguments.
And he had allowed those stories to replace the woman he once knew.
"Why didn't you come to me personally?" he asked.
Naomi laughed bitterly.
"I did."
"When?"
"Fourteen months ago. Your office security refused to let me upstairs."
He remembered vaguely hearing about an incident involving Naomi at headquarters.
Evelyn had called it an angry confrontation.
Naomi continued.
"Ten months ago, I waited outside your building. Your driver told me you had left through the garage."
Marcus closed his eyes.
"Daniel never mentioned it."
"Your mother told me you'd instructed everyone not to let me near you."
Marcus thought about his own choices.
He could have called Naomi directly.
He could have driven here.
He could have petitioned the court to enforce their parenting arrangement.
Instead, he had accepted the convenient silence.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Naomi's expression didn't soften.
"Sorry doesn't give him back those birthdays."
He nodded.
"I know."
"No, Marcus. I don't think you do."
She stood and retrieved a small wooden box from the counter.
Inside were drawings, school photographs, and folded notes.
"Eli made these for you."
Marcus picked up a picture of a red truck.
In the driver's seat, a stick figure smiled beside a smaller figure wearing a blue hat.
Across the top, Eli had written:
DADDY AND ME WHEN HE COMES BACK.
Marcus swallowed.
"Why didn't you send them?"
"I did. Copies."
He looked at her.
She lowered herself into the opposite chair.
"Every time Eli asked whether you'd answered, I had to choose between telling him the truth and protecting the image he had of you."
"What did you tell him?"
"That grown-ups sometimes make mistakes."
Marcus looked down at the drawings.
"That was generous."
"It wasn't generosity. It was survival."
Naomi's eyes filled.
"I couldn't let my son grow up believing the world was full of people who stopped loving you when your life got difficult."
Marcus reached for the next letter.
This one was dated six months earlier.
Naomi had written about Eli's eighth birthday.
About his chocolate cake.
About the empty chair she had left beside his own.
Near the bottom, the handwriting became uneven.
I don't know what Evelyn has told you about me. But if you still believe I stole from Bennett Development, ask yourself why I would destroy the company that paid for our home and our son's childhood.
Marcus stopped reading.
A different memory surfaced.
The missing money.
The internal investigation.
The day Evelyn placed the accounting report on his desk.
The day his marriage began collapsing beyond repair.
"Naomi."
She looked at him.
"Did you steal that money?"
Her expression went completely blank.
For a moment, he regretted asking.
Then she said, "One hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred dollars."
Marcus stared.
She continued.
"That's the amount they accused me of transferring."
"How do you remember it so precisely?"
"Because it was the number your mother used to convince you I was a criminal."
Naomi opened the bottom drawer of a small cabinet.
She removed another envelope.
This one was white, thick, and marked with a law firm's name.
"I kept everything."
Marcus looked from the documents to her face.
"What is that?"
"Proof that the missing money was never the real problem."
He reached for it.
Naomi held it back.
"If I show you this, there is no going back to pretending your mother made a mistake."
Marcus met her eyes.
"I'm done pretending."
Naomi slowly released the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph of a company ledger.
Four transactions had been circled in red.
And beside each one was an authorization code.
May you like
Marcus recognized the code immediately.
It belonged to his own executive office.
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