Free Best Kept Secret by Amy Hatvany

do was go back to a standard full-time job and put my son in day care twelve hours a day. In fact, the idea made my stomach turn. I didn’t want to be my mother, but I also couldn’t get away from the sinking sensation that I didn’t want to be who I was.
    Charlie turned four in August, and that November, I managed to swing a contract with
Woman’s Day
for an article about why women take back a husband after he cheats. The managing editor initially asked me to write the article on spec, which meant I would have written it in full and then they would have decided whether or not they wanted to buy it, but I managed to negotiate my way into a contract instead, including a ten percent kill fee if they decided not to publish.
    On the Friday before Thanksgiving, my plan was to hunker down while Charlie was at Martin’s for the weekend and get the
Woman’s Day
assignment done. I’d finished my research and interviewed a psychology professor at the University of Washington to cite as my relationship expert, but I was still having a hard time getting the actual writing started.
    I sipped at a glass of wine while Charlie ate dinner—he was leaving soon, so I figured it would be okay to indulge in front of him. For almost six months, since the day of the stop sign incident, I’d waited until after he was in bed for the night to pour my first glass.
    Martin showed up around six o’clock, a full hour after the time he told me he’d pick Charlie up.
    “Daddy!” my son said when I opened the front door. He ran and jumped up, throwing his bony arms around his father’s neck and squeezing hard. Martin squeezed back, lifting his child into the air, letting Charlie’s body hang straight down—a human necktie. His skinny legs floated free as Martin rotated, swinging his son back and forth. Charlie laughed.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Martin said, looking just over my shoulder instead of making direct eye contact.
    “Uh-huh,” I said. He knew I’d heard that phrase fall out of his mouth enough times for it to lose all meaning; I don’t know why he bothered to speak it. I took in his casual work attire, blue jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt with a Windows icon over his heart. A bitter thought floated through my mind:
I pledge allegiance to Bill Gates . . .
and to all the money that he pays me. . . .
And then I remembered that for the time being, between the proceeds of the divorce settlement and child support, Bill Gates’s money was keeping me afloat, too.
    “So,” Martin said, lifting Charlie up to hug him. “Do you have his stuff?”
    “It’s right there,” I said, pointing to the Spider-Man-embossed backpack by the door. I’d packed four changes of clothes and an additional five pairs of underwear for the two-day stay at his dad’s. Charlie was successfully potty trained; however, his attempts to clean himself up afterward occasionally went very, very wrong.
    “Great, thanks.” He stared at the glass of wine I still held in my hand and I quickly set it on the entryway table.
    “He hasn’t been eating much other than chicken nuggets and mandarin oranges,” I said. “So you might want to stop at the store and pick some up.”
    “We’ll manage. We’re going over to my mom’s tomorrow.”
    “Ah. How
is
Alice?” Our conversation was tense—I suddenly flashed on how my husband’s naked body used to feel pressed against mine in the middle of the night, how he’d set his wide palm across the flesh of my belly. I gave my head a tiny shake, trying to erase the image.
    “She’s good.” He pulled back his head, craning to look at Charlie. “You ready, buddy?”
    “Yep!” Charlie said, kicking his spindly legs in emphasis.
    I leaned over and kissed my son’s cheek, rubbing his back as I did. “ ’Bye, Mr. Man. Mommy loves you.”
    “Love you, too,” Charlie said.
    After I closed the door behind them, I went straight to my laptop, but the words wouldn’t come. I was a fake, a fraud. I don’t know why I