Love within the plan

I'd been groomed to be a Hudson wife since I was a kid. At twenty, I married Holden. At twenty-four, I gave birth to our son, Henry. Henry was a lot like Holden, quiet and reserved, not particularly close to me. Every night, I’d bring them both a glass of warm milk before bed. But one night, Holden knocked his glass over, and Henry secretly poured his down the drain. That’s when I started to feel…done.

When I handed Holden the divorce papers, he frowned, annoyed. "All this, over that?"

"Yeah," I said, "all this, over that."

"What about Henry?" he asked, his face settling back into its usual impassiveness, all business. "What are you planning to do about our son?"

I sat across from him, feeling like a guest at his negotiating table. "I'm giving up custody," I said calmly. "I'm also transferring the house on Elm Street to his name. Consider it compensation for child support." He was a Hudson, after all. He belonged with Holden more than he ever belonged with me.

Holden looked down at me, his eyes unreadable. Like he couldn't comprehend why I was making such a fuss. "Amelia," he said, his voice softening, "If it's about the milk, I apologize. You know I was drunk last night. I didn't mean to do that." He kept explaining patiently, convinced that the spilled milk was the root of the problem.

He'd come home late from a work dinner. I'd been dozing on the couch, woken by the draft of cold air he brought in with him. I got up, saw him taking off his jacket and rubbing his forehead, and immediately went to the kitchen to get the milk I’d kept warm for him. We weren’t exactly lovey-dovey, but we maintained a civil facade. But last night, I'd asked, "Who were you with? That perfume smells familiar."

That's when he’d let go of the glass. I hadn't reacted fast enough. It slipped through my fingers, shattering on the floor, the sound echoing in the warm light of the room, shattering the quiet too. Holden's face hardened. He looked at me coldly and said, "Amelia, you're crossing a line. Don't wait up for me anymore. And you don't need to bring me milk."

And Henry, after seeing his father’s reaction, had secretly poured his own milk away. When I caught him, he stood in the doorway, apologizing with the same lack of emotion. "Sorry, Mom. Dad didn't want his, so I didn't want mine either."

To them, father and son, it was a trivial incident. And I wasn’t supposed to make a big deal out of it.

I didn't bother explaining further. I signed the papers, hired a lawyer, and ended it.

Holden talked about asset division, but I barely listened. I went upstairs to pack. He watched me. "Amelia, the paperwork takes time. You don’t have to rush out. You can keep the house."

I looked at him, this calm, detached man. I used his own words against him. "It's best to be clean and quick about these things. Avoid loose ends."

He didn't say anything else.

Packing was harder than I’d thought. The house was full of little things, each one a memory, placed there by me. I lo...