Chapter 6
The officer held out a clipboard and pointed to a signature line. Paulina scrawled her name without taking one arm off Molly. He nodded respectfully to Nicholas, did a tiny double take as recognition seemed to dawn, and then left without comment.
When the door shut, silence fell again.
Nicholas stepped closer. Molly turned her face into Paulina’s shoulder, then peeked at him with solemn curiosity.
“This,” Paulina said softly, “is your great-grandpa Nick.”
Nicholas bent slowly, lowering himself to child height. “Hello, princess.”
Molly studied his face, then reached out one cautious hand and touched his cheek.
“Scratchy,” she announced.
Nicholas laughed. A real laugh, deep and startled, as if it had not visited him often enough lately.
“Yes,” he said. “I came in a hurry.”
Molly considered this and seemed to accept him.
Children, Paulina thought, always saw more clearly than adults.
Vera carried Molly to the bedroom to show her the old dollhouse Paulina had once played with. The little girl, finally safe, began to chatter sleepily about whether rabbits got scared of police cars.
In the quiet that followed, Nicholas turned back to Paulina.
“Now,” he said, “the adult decisions.”
Paulina straightened on the sofa.
“What Eleanor did tonight constitutes assault, battery, threats, and interference with custody. Her broader activities are another matter entirely.” He tapped the folder again. “I can begin the collapse tomorrow.”
“No.”
Nicholas’s stare sharpened.
“No?” he repeated.
“I need to speak to Max first. Not because I forgive her. Because if he stands with me, then Molly keeps her father without a war destroying everything around us. If he stands with her…” Paulina lifted her bruised chin. “Then do whatever you want.”
Nicholas held her gaze for a long moment.
“Naive,” he said at last.
“Maybe.”
“Stubborn.”
“Yes.”
A flicker of something like pride crossed his face.
“You really are Vera’s daughter,” he murmured. Then louder: “One week. Not a day more.”
That night Paulina lay in her childhood bed, Molly curled against her in dinosaur pajamas, and stared into the darkness.
Her phone had died sometime on the bus. She had no idea how many times Max had called. She had no idea what Eleanor had told him. She had no idea what tomorrow would look like.
Yet beneath the pain and dread, one impossible thing remained.
Hope.
Broken hope, bruised hope, foolish hope—but hope all the same.
When sleep finally took her, it was not because fear ended.
It was because exhaustion overpowered it.
The next morning the doorbell rang at eight ten.
Paulina shot upright so fast the room spun.
From the hallway she heard Vera’s steps, the door opening, then a male voice gone raw with shock.
“Paulina.”
She was already moving.
Max stood on the threshold looking like a man who had been dragged through the night by his own conscience. His hair was uncombed. His shirt was wrinkled. He hadn’t shaved. His eyes were bloodshot and hollow with sleeplessness.
Then he saw her face clearly.
All the color went out of him.
“Oh God.”
Paulina folded her arms over herself and said, “Come in.”
He stepped inside as if entering a church after a fire.
“Is Molly here?” he asked immediately.
“She’s sleeping.”
“Thank God.”
They went into the kitchen. Vera poured water and left them alone without being asked.
For a few seconds neither of them spoke. The silence between them felt heavy enough to bruise.
Finally Max said, “The police came last night. Mom was screaming. They were taking Molly. I had no idea what was happening. I thought—” He broke off. “I thought it was a mistake.”
Paulina said nothing.
He looked at her face again and flinched. “Then they told me. About the report. About the assault. I didn’t believe them. I couldn’t.” His throat worked. “Tell me.”
So she did.
This time she did not soften a thing. She told him about the report Eleanor waved in her face. The threats about divorce and psychiatric confinement. The words disappear forever. The blows. The moment she had to leave Molly behind because staying would have turned violent in front of their child.
Max listened without moving.
By the time she finished, he had one hand braced against the edge of the counter as if he needed support to remain standing.
“She did that,” he said, barely audible.
“Yes.”
“My mother.”
May you like
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes.
