Chapter 6 - THE DAUGHTERS THEY CALLED THE PROBLEM
Ava asked the question during her third therapy session.
“Did Daddy want us?”
Her therapist, Dr. Alicia Moreno, did not answer for me.
She looked at me.
I wanted to say:
Of course.
He loved you from the moment you were born.
He cried when he held you.
He taught you to ride a bike.
He slept on the floor beside you when you had pneumonia.
All of that was true.
So was the porch.
So were the words she overheard.
“Your dad loves you,” I said carefully.
Ava looked skeptical.
“Then why did he say girls were worthless?”
My throat closed.
“Because adults can love someone and still believe harmful things.”
“That’s stupid.”
Dr. Moreno almost smiled.
“Yes.”
Ava looked at me.
“Am I a failure?”
“No.”
“Is Molly?”
“No.”
She touched my stomach.
“Is the baby?”
I could barely answer.
“No.”
That was the consequence Wade and Ruth had never calculated.
Children hear hierarchy as identity.
The baby was healthy.
My obstetrician continued monitoring me more closely, but nothing catastrophic occurred.
I was lucky.
I hated that word.
Luck should not be necessary inside marriage.
Hannah offered us her spare rooms.
I chose not to move to Austin.
The girls’ school, doctors, and therapists were in North Texas.
I rented a small two-bedroom apartment in Fort Worth using my own salary.
Ava and Molly shared a room.
They complained about it within four days.
I almost cried with relief.
Ordinary complaints were returning.
Financially, things got worse before they improved.
The credit-card company investigated my dispute.
Because my electronic signature appeared on the application, the balance did not disappear automatically.
Melissa helped document how the account had been represented to me.
We separated charges.
Some household purchases benefited me.
Many went toward Harlan Heritage.
The process would take time.
Wade’s fencing company also had a trailer financed using our joint credit.
I had signed that paperwork.
That debt was real.
“Do I have to pay it?”
“Maybe partly,” Melissa said. “We’re not going to invent an answer because Wade behaved terribly elsewhere.”
I appreciated her even when I hated what she said.
Mr. Harris became an unexpected ally.
He gave a formal witness statement about the porch.
Then apologized to me.
“For what?”
“I heard things before.”
My stomach tightened.
“What things?”
“Yelling.”
“How long?”
He looked ashamed.
“Months.”
“Why didn’t you come over?”
“Wade said you were having a rough pregnancy and arguments got loud.”
He stared at his hands.
“I told myself married people fight.”
I understood that logic because I had used it too.
“What changed Tuesday?”
“I saw the rope.”
Visible evidence gave him permission to believe what sound alone had already suggested.
That was a lesson none of us enjoyed.
Ruth’s loyalty began shifting too.
Not toward me.
Away from Wade.
Her attorney contacted Natalie.
Ruth wanted separate representation.
Wade had apparently been telling investigators that his mother encouraged every punishment.
Ruth insisted Wade was exaggerating her role.
“Was she there?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did she help?”
“The evidence will determine specifics.”
I remembered Ruth standing in the doorway.
Saying:
A useless wife deserves no mercy.
Whatever legal label eventually applied, she had not been a frightened bystander.
But fear had entered their alliance.
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The story they created together was beginning to split under pressure.
And Wade had much more to lose than the north parcel.
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