Chapter 2 - Three Tickets to Paris
Ryan's name flashed across my screen.
I didn't answer.
Not because I was afraid of him.
Because my children were ten feet away.
Whatever “everything” meant, I wasn't going to let another adult's family drama invade their vacation.
I silenced the call.
Emma looked up.
“Uncle Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“Is something wrong?”
I smiled.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
That answer was technically true.
Whatever was happening belonged to the adults.
I intended to keep it there.
My phone buzzed again.
RYAN: Pick up.
Then:
I need to know what Dad promised you.
Promised me?
I stared at the words.
Nothing about this made sense.
I typed:
Dad didn't promise me anything. He didn't pay for Paris. I paid for it.
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Then:
That's impossible.
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because there it was again.
The assumption.
Claire couldn't possibly have paid.
I typed:
Why?
No response.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
Finally:
Call me when the kids aren't around.
I put my phone facedown.
Emma narrowed her eyes.
“You're doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you're pretending you're not mad.”
Noah looked up.
“She does have a mad face.”
“Thank you both for the feedback.”
Emma grinned.
The tension broke.
That evening, we went out for dinner.
I deliberately left my phone inside my purse.
No family drama.
No Maui.
No Ryan.
No explanations.
No defending my salary.
We ate near the river.
Noah ordered something he couldn't pronounce and then refused to admit he didn't like it.
Emma corrected my French even though her own French consisted of approximately twelve words.
We walked back to the hotel beneath holiday lights.
For several hours, everything felt normal again.
Then the children fell asleep.
I sat near the window.
There were eleven missed calls.
Three from Ryan.
Four from Mom.
Two from Dad.
Two from Megan.
That was when I knew something bigger had happened.
I called Mom first.
She answered before the first ring finished.
“Claire.”
“What happened?”
“Are the kids asleep?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Then Mom said, “Did your father give you money?”
“No.”
“For the trip?”
“For anything.”
“Claire, please think.”
“I don't need to think. Dad hasn't given me money.”
Mom exhaled.
“All right.”
“Why is everyone asking me this?”
“Because Ryan saw your pictures.”
“I gathered that.”
“He became upset.”
“Why?”
“He thought your father had paid.”
“You already texted me that. Why would he think that?”
Mom didn't answer.
“Mom?”
“I don't know how much I should say.”
My patience vanished.
“You called me four times. Say it.”
She lowered her voice.
“Your father has been helping Ryan financially.”
That wasn't exactly breaking news.
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
“Mom.”
“I truly don't know.”
I sat straighter.
“You share bank accounts.”
“Some accounts.”
The way she said it made my skin prickle.
“What does that mean?”
“Your father handles most of the investments.”
“Okay.”
“And there are accounts I don't normally look at.”
“Normally?”
Another silence.
“Mom, what did you find?”
She didn't answer directly.
Instead, she said, “Ryan believes your father has a certain amount set aside for family assistance every year.”
“Family assistance?”
“That is what your father calls it.”
“And Ryan believes he gets all of it?”
“I think so.”
Suddenly the pieces shifted.
Ryan wasn't angry because I went to Paris.
He was angry because he believed money that belonged to him had been redirected toward me.
Not family money.
His money.
At least in his mind.
“How much has Dad been giving him?”
“I told you I don't know.”
“You're avoiding the question.”
“I don't know the total.”
That was different.
“What total do you know?”
Mom's voice became almost inaudible.
“I found transfers.”
“How many?”
“Claire…”
“How many?”
“Years of them.”
I stood.
Outside the window, Paris glittered.
Inside the room, I felt twelve years old again, watching Dad hand Ryan keys to his first car.
“How much?”
“Some were small.”
“And others?”
“One was thirty-five thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
“When?”
“When they bought their house.”
That I knew.
Dad had admitted helping with the down payment.
“Anything else?”
“Twenty-two thousand the following year.”
“For what?”
“I don't know.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“How much?”
Mom whispered, “Claire, I found more than a hundred thousand dollars in transfers.”
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Not because I wanted the money.
That wasn't it.
I had built my life without it.
What stunned me was the scale of the lie.
Dad had spent years talking about responsibility.
He lectured me about student loans.
He once told me that buying a condo as a single mother was “financially ambitious.”
Meanwhile, Ryan had apparently been receiving a private subsidy.
“Does Ryan know you found the transfers?”
“I don't think so.”
“Does Dad?”
“No.”
“Then why did Ryan call me?”
“Because when he saw Paris, he called your father.”
“And?”
“They argued.”
“About me?”
“At first.”
“What happened after that?”
Mom hesitated.
“Your father told Ryan he needed to stop expecting money.”
I almost smiled.
“Finally.”
“Claire, you don't understand.”
“What don't I understand?”
“Ryan said Dad couldn't stop.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“He said there was an agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“I don't know.”
That phrase again.
“Mom, where is Dad?”
“He left the suite.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don't know.”
“Ryan?”
“He and Megan took the children downstairs.”
I leaned against the window.
“Mom, listen to me. Whatever Dad and Ryan arranged has nothing to do with me.”
“I know.”
“Then don't drag me into it.”
“I wasn't trying to.”
“Everyone called me.”
“I know.”
“And Dad accused me of humiliating him because I took my children somewhere after he excluded them.”
“I know.”
Mom's voice cracked slightly.
That stopped me.
My mother almost never cried.
“Mom?”
“I should have said something.”
“About what?”
“The trip.”
I didn't respond.
“I knew there was room,” she said.
My throat tightened.
“I knew Emma and Noah could have come.”
“Then why didn't you say anything?”
“I told myself your father was handling the cost.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“I know.”
“You watched them leave us behind.”
“I know.”
I closed my eyes.
For years, I had blamed Dad for the obvious favoritism.
But silence was a choice too.
Mom had made hers.
“I need to go,” I said.
“Claire—”
“I don't want to fight tonight.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I found something else.”
I stopped.
“In the account records?”
“No.”
Her voice changed.
“I was looking for the paperwork from the Maui booking because Ryan kept insisting your father had promised something. I opened the travel folder.”
“And?”
“There was an envelope inside.”
I waited.
“It had your name on it.”
My heart skipped.
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“I didn't open it.”
“Why?”
“Because your father walked in.”
A sound came through her end of the call.
A door.
Then Dad's voice in the distance.
Mom whispered, “He's back.”
“Take the envelope.”
“I can't.”
“Mom.”
“I'll call you.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
A minute passed.
Then two.
No call.
Instead, a photograph arrived.
Mom had sent it.
A cream envelope lay on a hotel desk.
Across the front, in my father's handwriting, were three words:
FOR CLAIRE ONLY.
Below my name was a date.
Five years earlier.
The exact month my husband left me.
Then another message appeared from Mom.
Claire, I opened it.
I typed immediately.
What's inside?
The typing bubble appeared.
Stopped.
Appeared again.
Then Mom sent one final message.
Your father has been lying to both you and Ryan for years.
Before I could respond, someone knocked on my hotel-room door.
Three slow knocks.
I wasn't expecting anyone.
May you like
Then a man's voice from the hallway said my name.
“Claire?”
