Of course, I said, signing the paper with a trembling hand. I’m just grateful for the opportunity. Freya counted out $200 in cash, making sure the entire cafe could see her generous gesture.
There you go. Don’t disappoint me. I won’t, I promised, clutching the money like salvation.
As I left the cafe, I heard Freya’s voice behind me. Not quite quiet enough to be private. Some people never learned to take care of themselves.
It’s really quite sad. The laughter that followed me out the door was sharp and cutting, but I wasn’t crying as I walked to my car. I was smiling because in that cafe, surrounded by witnesses, Freya had just revealed exactly who she was.
The hidden recorder in my purse had captured every word, every cruel laugh, every moment of calculated cruelty. And now I had everything I needed to show my son the truth about his wife. The call came on a Sunday morning, exactly 3 weeks after the cafe incident.
Brent’s voice was hollow, defeated in a way I’d never heard before. Mom, I need to see you. Of course, honey.
What’s wrong? Not over the phone. Can you come over?
Freya’s at her mother’s with the baby. 20 minutes later, I sat in the living room where I’d once belonged, watching my son pace like a caged animal. He looked terrible, thin, exhausted, aged beyond his 32 years.
She’s leaving me, he said without preamble. Freya’s filing for divorce. I felt my heart break for him, even though I’d seen this coming.
Oh, Brent, I’m so sorry. She says I’m emotionally abusive, that I’ve been controlling and manipulative. He laughed bitterly.
She’s taking Thomas. I might only get supervised visitation. That’s ridiculous.
You’re the gentlest man I know. Try telling that to her lawyer. He slumped into his father’s old chair.
She’s claiming I have hidden assets. That I’ve been lying about our finances. She wants half of everything, plus alimony and child support.
Hidden assets. The irony would have been funny if it weren’t so tragic. Brent, there’s something I need to tell you about Freya.
He looked up and I saw a flicker of hope in his eyes. What do you mean? I’d prepared for this moment, rehearsed it in my mind countless times, but sitting there looking at my broken son, the words felt heavy and dangerous.
She’s been lying to you about a lot of things. I told him everything about the investigation, about Richard Castiano, about the months of planning and deception. I showed him the photographs, played him the recording from the cafe, laid out the evidence of his wife’s calculated cruelty.
With each revelation, Brent’s face grew paler. When I finished, he sat in stunned silence for several minutes. How long have you known?
He finally asked. About the affair? A few weeks?
About her plan to leave? Not long enough to stop it, I’m afraid. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?
The question I dreaded. Because you wouldn’t have believed me. You needed to see it for yourself.
He flinched, but didn’t deny it. We both knew I was right. There’s something else, I said gently. Something I should have told you a long time ago.