Chapter 4 - BEATRICE’S VERSION OF FAMILY
Beatrice did not call me for twelve days.
Then she arrived at my house.
Not the restaurant.
The house Lucas and I had purchased six years earlier.
He had moved into a hotel after our confrontation.
I had changed nothing dramatic.
No locks without legal advice.
No boxes on the lawn.
Divorce lawyers existed for a reason.
Beatrice stood on the porch.
“Let me in.”
“No.”
She looked stunned.
“I am your mother-in-law.”
“For now.”
That hurt her.
Good.
Then I regretted enjoying that.
Pain makes cruelty feel efficient.
It usually isn’t.
“What do you want?”
“Lucas is falling apart.”
“He should call his therapist.”
“He needs his wife.”
“He needed his wife while sleeping with Sienna too.”
Beatrice flinched.
“She was a mistake.”
“Eight months is a subscription.”
Her face hardened.
“Must everything be a joke?”
“Nothing about this is funny.”
Then she said:
“You work constantly.”
There it was.
The justification.
“You were never home.”
“So?”
“Lucas was lonely.”
“Then he could have talked to me.”
“He did.”
“He complained that I worked too much.”
“That is not the same as requesting divorce before starting another relationship.”
Beatrice crossed her arms.
“You always make everything sound like accounting.”
“I’m an accountant when people steal from my company.”
“You’re a chef.”
“I’m both.”
She laughed bitterly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You always need everyone to know what you built.”
I stared.
“I spent eight years watching you tell people your son built it.”
She said nothing.
I continued.
“Why?”
“Because Lucas supported you.”
“Yes.”
“Then he deserves credit.”
“He has credit.”
“As my husband.”
“As the person who paid more household expenses during Lumina’s first year.”
“That did not turn him into an owner.”
“You would have failed without him.”
“Maybe.”
The answer surprised her.
I continued.
“That still would not make Lumina his.”
Silence.
Then:
“Families share.”
I almost smiled.
“Only when sharing goes both ways.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you treated my restaurant like yours.”
“Lucas treated my business account like his.”
“And when I objected, both of you called me selfish.”
Beatrice looked away.
Then I asked:
“How long did you know about Sienna?”
Her jaw tightened.
“How long?”
“Five months.”
I closed my eyes.
Five.
“What did you tell him?”
“That he should be careful.”
I stared.
“Careful?”
“It wasn’t my marriage.”
“No.”
“But you ate free meals in my restaurant while knowing my husband was spending money from that restaurant on another woman.”
She looked ashamed for the first time.
Good.
Then she ruined it.
“I thought he was using his own share.”
I laughed.
“There is no share.”
“I know that now.”
There.
Finally.
“Did Lucas tell you he owned half?”
Beatrice hesitated.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
That changed something.
Lucas had not merely allowed his mother to assume.
He had told her.
Why?
Status.
Pride.
Maybe because saying:
“My wife built a successful restaurant”
felt smaller to him than:
“We own a successful restaurant.”
Beatrice whispered:
“I didn’t know he wasn’t an owner.”
I believed that part.
“But you knew you weren’t paying.”
She nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
That was enough.
She left.
Before walking down the steps, she turned.
“Are you really divorcing him?”
“Yes.”
She began crying.
I expected myself to feel victorious.
I didn’t.
I felt tired.
“Camilla.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
That stopped her.
Good question.
She had several options.
“I don’t know yet.”
May you like
For once, that was honest.
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