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I wondered if that was what it felt like. A small start.

13. Dylan

“You said it got worse?” he asked as he handed me the tea he’d made. I was sitting at the kitchen table, unloading paperwork out of a box. Southwark Council planning guidance. It was years old, and I sighed as I discarded it. It was probably all online these days, and I should have kept up, made sure Jean had them all bookmarked on my laptop. Perhaps she did. What did I know?

What I did know was that I didn’t want to talk about it. I’d already cried once today—perhaps even twice—hoping Gun Larsen hadn’t noticed. Like I could hide anything from her. The woman had a gaze that would make die-hard dictators quiver in their leather boots. Or something like that.

“Dylan?” he repeated as I took a sip of tea.

“Shall we move this table?” I suggested, getting up and pretending to be incredibly interested in the wood grain on the surface while I gauged the weight with my hands.

“Don’t change the subject. You mentioned it. I think maybe it’s time you told me the truth. The real truth, because to me, something doesn’t add up here.”

Stern. Concerned. I hated it. The look on his face made me feel weak.

“Nothing,” I whispered.

“Stop.” He walked around and pulled my hands off the goddamn table, then gently grasped them in his.

I tried to breathe. Tried not to panic. Swallowed spit as small puffs of breath left my lips.

“Dylan, you’re frightened. I get that. This is big. But it’s the only way forward. And…you could crash and burn. But you could also win. This fear is understandable but also irrational, just like…”

He took a breath. Squeezed my hands. “You lost custody of your three children overnight. You lost everything around you. Watched it crumble. And I’m expected to believe your lawyer wife somehow convinced the courts you were an unfit father due to enjoying a single glass of wine on a beach? Just like that?”

No. I didn’t expect him to believe that at all.

“My father worked in family law. Veronica worked in family law. I grew up with it all around me. I chose to go into building law on purpose.” I was deflecting, trying to buy time. Time I didn’t have.

“Not relevant,” he said softly. “We’re not talking about your career here.”

I said nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“You and I,” he continued softly. “We’ve known each other for a while now. We’ve spent night after night talking. I enjoy your company. But I’ve also started to understand you, and I think…” He stopped to gather himself up, probably to gain some courage.

I wasn’t completely off my rocker. I was still someone who could read people. And he wasn’t wrong.

“I appreciate that,” I said quietly, squeezing his fingers. He eased his hands out of mine and moved them up my arms, holding on to me. I felt like I was drowning again.

“You don’t drink, take drugs or have any obvious vices. You take antidepressants. You do look after yourself to some extent. I don’t for a minute believe any of that would impact your ability to care for your children.”

“It’s not that simple.” Excuses again. Even I was starting to see how my whingeing was destroying everything.

Enough.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I…wasn’t a very good husband. I didn’t listen. I didn’t see the cracks forming, and I didn’t put Veronica first. I just—”

“Truth. All of it.”

He knew. I was tired of lying. Tired of hiding. Tired of trying to plaster up the cracks in my life with nothing but fear. Shame. Tears.

“I’ve lived with depression…all my life. Struggled with expectations and goals and exams.”

“We all struggle. And you’ve dealt with that, haven’t you? The antidepressants? You mentioned therapy?”

It wasn’t that easy.