“I was trying to get control.”
“I believe you.”
“She pushes.”
“I believe you.”
“And none of that changes what happened.”
Diane covered her face.
“No.”
For the first time, they were in the same conversation.
Michael looked toward the stairs.
“What else don't I know?”
She stayed silent.
His stomach tightened.
“Diane.”
“There are rules.”
“I know that.”
“More than tonight.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
She laughed sadly.
“I don't have a number.”
“Give me categories.”
He hated how corporate that sounded.
Still.
Useful.
Diane told him.
If Emma interrupted adult conversation after two warnings, she sat on the bottom stair for ten minutes.
If she complained about dinner, dessert was removed.
If she left toys in the family room overnight, one toy went into a storage box for a week.
If she said “Daddy lets me” during an argument, phone calls with Michael could be delayed until after bedtime routine.
Michael stopped.
“What?”
Diane’s face changed.
“I never stopped you calling.”
“You delayed Emma talking to me.”
“Only when she was using you to undermine me.”
“How many times?”
“Maybe three.”
Michael searched memory.
Three evenings in the previous two months when Diane texted:
Emma fell asleep early.
One when Michael had called and Diane said Emma was in the bath.
Another:
She’s having a rough night. Call tomorrow.
He had believed her.
“Was she actually asleep?”
“Once.”
His face went cold.
“You lied.”
“I was trying to stop the cycle.”
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“And to her?”
Diane looked down.
“What did you tell Emma?”
“That you were busy.”
Michael stood.
His chair moved backward loudly.
Diane flinched.
“You told my daughter I was too busy to talk to her because she annoyed you.”
“No.”
“That is what happened.”
“She was using calls with you as an escape.”
“She is seven.”
“I know!”
Diane shouted.
Then immediately lowered her voice.
“I know.”
Michael paced.
“How many nights did she go to bed thinking I didn't call?”
“Three.”
“Diane.”
“I know.”
He stopped.
“Do not say that like awareness now cancels choice then.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
He walked into the foyer.
Picked up his briefcase.
Not to leave.
He needed movement.
Inside was a blue folder.
He pulled it out.
Diane watched.
“What is that?”
Michael returned to the table.
He placed the folder between them.
“Something I was going to tell you tonight.”
Her expression changed.
“What?”
He opened it.
TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION.
CARTER FAMILY SUPPORT TRUST.
Diane frowned.
Michael’s late wife, Sarah Carter, had died five years earlier from complications related to leukemia.
Before her death, Sarah’s parents created a trust for Emma.
Michael rarely touched it.
Not because he was wealthy enough to ignore money.
Because Sarah’s parents intended the fund primarily for Emma’s education, healthcare, and long-term stability.
Michael had become co-trustee with Sarah’s older sister, Rachel.
Diane knew the trust existed.
She did not know much else.