by Cecilia Lyra
Cassie blinks once, then twice. The moment lengthens. I am convinced she won’t answer my question, but then she says, “Yes.” A second later, she returns her gaze to her computer.
I bite my tongue to keep from asking more. Sophie is many things, but she is seldom misinformed. It’ll be refreshing to set her straight. You see, Sophie, I imagine myself telling her, Cassie has a proper boyfriend. Since this conversation is taking place in my imagination, I can even call her Maman—something I haven’t done since I was seven years old.
“What will people think if you call me Maman? I’m much too young, ma petite!”
Maybe I’ll call her Maman just this once. Serves her right for believing silly rumors about Cassie—of course she’d never date a married man.
But then it hits me: Sophie used to refer to my dad as her boyfriend, too.
She didn’t do it to protect me—Sophie has never believed in sugarcoating things, least of all her relationship with my dad. As a child, I knew my dad had another family: a wife and daughter, my half-sister. For years, I imagined a half-girl: with only one arm, one leg, and half a body. Her image haunted me—I was glad she lived in a different house.
I remember the day I asked my dad if my half-sister lived in a half-house. My dad had been amused, chuckling as he explained to me that a half-sister meant that we shared only one parent, not two. Then he told me that my half-sister’s mother was his wife.
“We’re married,” he said. “Do you know what being married means?”
“I do.” I nodded eagerly, pleased to know the answer. “It means you’re with someone because you have to be. Not because you want to be.”
Daddy laughed, tipping his head back in delight. “That’s a clever way to look at it.”
Sophie had been the one to explain it to me like that. But I kept that to myself. I wanted him to think I was clever all on my own. He often said I was beautiful and sweet. Like a princess, he’d say. But he’d never called me clever before.
Back then, wife and girlfriend were just words. Equal and uncomplicated titles. In my mind, my dad having a wife and a girlfriend was tantamount to someone having two crayons: one yellow and one orange. It would be a few years before I realized that girlfriend was a lesser crayon than wife—and also that girlfriend wasn’t the right word for my mother. Not according to the people in my school, anyway.
I was three when Sophie enrolled me at the Lycée International de Boston, in Sommerville, Massachusetts. The school was both expensive (twenty-thousand-dollar tuition) and impractical (forty minutes by car, one hour and a half by T), but Sophie refused to enroll me at the public school in Jamaica Plain, where we lived. On paper, she was like many of our neighbors: an immigrant single mother working two jobs. But Sophie considered our largely Hispanic, working-class neighborhood to be beneath her. We’re not like them, Julie. We’re Europeans, she’d say. The Lycée was a French school, and Sophie wanted me to have a French education. She promised I’d fit in there.
Except I didn’t. The overwhelming majority of the kids at my school were wealthy. Some more than others—but all of them led privileged lives. I was the exception. But that wasn’t what sealed my fate as an outsider among my peers. It was a conversation I had when I was five.
The assignment was simple. Draw a picture of your family and show it to the class.
“And remember,” Ms. Monique had said, “every family is unique, so you’ll all have different people to draw.”
I drew Sophie and me inside our house and my dad inside his car, waving at us. His car was facing away from the house, which Ms. Monique thought was curious. I explained that he was driving to his other family.
“What do you mean, other family?” The question came from Mrs. Pierce, a volunteer mom. A bitter, nosy woman—not that I knew that at the time.
“My mom is my dad’s girlfriend,” I explained. “And he also has a wife. I have a half-sister, but she’s a whole person.”
Mrs. Pierce pulled me aside later that day. “What’s your half-sister like, Julie?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “I’ve never met her.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Pierce pressed.
I shrugged. “Daddy says we’re not supposed to know each other. But she’s very different from me.” What I didn’t add is that I was Dad’s favorite daughter—his sweet, beautiful girl, as he often said. It felt like showing off.
In a matter of days, the PTA moms—all avid volunteers at school—had dug up the details on Sophie and my dad. An ongoing affair with a married man. A secret family. His wife had no idea. After that, the gossip spread like wildfire.
“You’ve seen her around, haven’t you?”
“The French one. Snobby. Thinks she’s better than everyone else.”
“She calls herself his girlfriend, can you believe it?”
“I heard she got knocked up so he’d leave his wife.”
“Her own daughter told us. That poor thing is going to have some major daddy issues.”
“She’ll probably grow up to be just like her mother. We all become our parents.”
On paper, the Lycée was diverse. It attracted kids from all over the globe—it was called the International School of Boston, after all. I was hardly the only one from a single-parent household. But I was the only one whose mother was the other woman—those words were always whispered, and for the longest time I was confused, thinking, What other woman? The day I understood their meaning was the day I understood why I was such an easy target for my classmates. Kids learn from their parents. They repeat what they hear. The teasing was cruel, relentless.
“Doesn’t it bother you that your dad has a real family?”
“My mom says your mom has no self-respect. She’s pathetic.”
“I heard she’s a homewrecker.”
“I heard she’s a slut.”
Sophie thought nothing of it. To her, bullying was an American affliction—like wearing sweatpants outside the house or refrigerating butter. “You have to toughen up, ma petite. People won’t always be nice to you. Especially plain-looking American girls. They’ll hate you for being more beautiful and stylish than them.”
This didn’t add up. The popular girls at school were beautiful. Prettier than me: skinny, with long, silky blond hair and pretty blue eyes. I was skinny, too, but my hair was as dark as a clear, starless sky. If being beautiful was the problem, why didn’t anyone pick on them?
I often wonder if things would’ve been different if we had been rich. Dad helped pay for school and he’d often take us out to a nice dinner, but for the most part we lived on my mom’s income, which meant that I didn’t have nice things like my classmates. Their lives seemed to be a steady stream of gifts and celebrations: new clothes and toys, trips abroad, lavish parties. I had to save lunch money for months to buy a pair of designer jeans. I didn’t want just any denim, I needed the ones my classmates had, in part because I still hadn’t met Nana—she was the one who helped me develop a personal style. But even after my summers in Montauk, I grew up coveting designer-brand items. The two interlocked Cs. An embarrassment of LVs. The mirror-imaged Fs. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t afford the kind of life that surrounded me, day in and day out. Or I did—but it never stopped bothering me.
As I grew older, I became more restless. I didn’t voice my thoughts to Sophie—I had already picked up on the fact that she wouldn’t listen—but, privately, I seethed. I resented her. Why didn’t she marry my dad? Why did she stay with him even though he had another wife? Why should he get to travel to the Hamptons in the summer with his wife and other daughter when Sophie and I didn’t have enough money to go to a cheap B&B? Why did it fall on me to help balance our checkbook and sort the bills? This was work meant for adults. I understood it was too much for Sophie to handle on her own. But that’s why people got married, wasn’t it? To share the workload. To let their kids be just that: kids.
In college, I became someone else. On the outside, anyway. I still wasn
’t able to afford prohibitive luxuries, but I had new friends. Ones who weren’t wealthy jerks. And I never told them that my mom was the other woman. In fact, I seldom mentioned Sophie. And when I mentioned marriage, it was in the context of my own, future marriage. I made no secret of the fact that it was my dream: to get married and start a family. I kept a scrapbook with cutouts from bridal magazines. My friends teased me. They compared me to Charlotte, from Sex and the City.
We’re only eighteen, Julie. We’re way too young to be dreaming of our wedding day. I can only imagine what they’d say if they knew about the fairy tales I conjured up in my mind. I didn’t mind the teasing. It was all in good fun. I laughed along, but, deep down, I knew I was right to focus on having a proper family. My friends could afford to be casual, to be flippant about their romantic futures. They had no idea what it was like, growing up as the daughter of the other woman. To be the family on the side.
Cassie knows. I’ve told her. All of it.
So if this boyfriend of hers really is a married man, then I hope she’s not planning on getting pregnant. No child deserves that kind of life.
Nine
Cassie
Saturday, June 30th
“I want you to leave Tatiana,” I say, facing the kitchen wall.
Too direct. Also, I’m not sure I should say her name. Would your wife sound better?
“Daniel, we need to talk,” I try again.
No—unacceptable.
I snap the blender top shut. I’d be breaking my own rule. It’s something I’ve said quite often on the show: Never begin a conversation with “we need to talk”. You’re already talking, so it’s both redundant and unnerving.
“Daniel, I feel like it’s time for you to leave your wife.” I feel? Does that sound sensitive or narcissistic, like I’m making it all about me?
I turn on the blender. The sound is strangely comforting—strident, almost angry. “Daniel, we can’t be together if you’re married.”
Is that better or worse? I can’t tell.
I detach the pitcher from the base, find a glass, and pour myself a fruit smoothie. I have no desire to share this house with Julie—it’s why I’ve gone out of my way to avoid her—but being here without her is almost worse. It’s strange, being alone in Nana’s house. Familiar, but incomplete. Like walking without feet.
Twenty minutes ago, Julie announced that she was off to meet her friend Janette at a restaurant on Main Street. I stared at her, wondering what she wanted me to do with the unsolicited bit of information. After she left, it hit me: maybe she expected me to drive her there. Too bad. I’m not her chauffeur. She should have her own car. We’re not kids anymore.
“Daniel, I know I told you I would never consider getting married, but I’ve changed my mind. I think you should leave your wife and we should be together.”
Now I’m basically proposing to him. Great.
How am I supposed to have this conversation with Daniel if I can’t manage it with myself? For all my training as a therapist, all my years of experience, the rights words often escape me when it comes to dealing with my own life. It’s more than a little frustrating.
I consider how far I’ve come since Daniel and I started seeing each other. I never liked the fact that Daniel was married, and I really didn’t like the fact that he and Tatiana had been patients of mine. At the same time, knowing that he was taken (it had been over a year since I’d treated him and Tatiana, but I knew they were still together) had made things easier. I didn’t want to get married. I didn’t even want to fall in love. Bearing witness to my parents’ marriage was trauma enough for me.
But life had other plans.
Before I realized it, I had fallen for Daniel. For a while, I assumed my heart was playing tricks on me. That his unavailability was serving as an aphrodisiac. I tried staying away. Ending things. But it was impossible. I had become what I feared: a woman in love.
I still am. Daniel isn’t just my boyfriend. He’s my best friend. My partner. The first person I call when anything—good or bad—happens. He’s the one I talk to every night before I go to sleep. He makes me feel safe and seen. Not just accepted, but adored. We share a connection that is different than anything I’ve ever experienced, beyond what I thought was possible. It isn’t merely physical or emotional. It’s visceral.
Seeing him at the hospital changed everything. That was a watershed moment for me, a turning point. That’s when it hit me: I don’t just love him—I want to be with him. For real. Which is why I’m initiating tonight’s conversation. I could wait—for him to bring it up, for Tatiana to fall in love with someone else. But patience has never been my strong suit. And it isn’t one I encourage my clients to cultivate, either.
I take a sip of my smoothie and go back to my imaginary conversation.
Practice makes perfect.
Daniel and I are on the porch, curled up on the oversized canopy daybed. Our view is perfect: a chilled bottle of 2011 Pouilly-Fuissé against the blue backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean. I should be relaxed. Instead, I’m nervous. Agitated.
“Where’s your sister tonight?” he asks, stuffing fries into his mouth. He arrived earlier with sandwiches from the Lobster Roll—my favorite—but I could only manage a few bites.
“Julie,” I begin, my eyes a warning, “is having lunch with a friend.”
“She has friends on the island?”
“From Boston, I think.” I really don’t want to be talking about Julie right now.
Daniel takes the final bite of his sandwich, chews it slowly. “And where are you?”
I feel my forehead crease. “What do you mean?”
“I feel like you’re not here.” He strokes my hair. “Is it the house?”
We’ve talked about it already. About how weird it is for me to be here. Daniel and I talk about everything—from the mundane to the deep. Since his arrival, we’ve covered his health (he continues to follow his cardiologist’s recommendations), my strategy with Julie (to ignore her), Norman-the-lawyer’s annoying check-up calls (one so far, but I’m sure there’ll be more), his kids (Angie and Sam are having a great time at Auntie Bella’s house), his work (Preston quit—good news; we don’t like him because he’s taken credit for Daniel’s work), and, of course, the house. As in: how much it reminds me of Nana, how much I miss her.
“I like having you here,” I say. “It’s like you’re finally meeting Nana. The next best thing, anyway.” I should have visited her. Should’ve been a better granddaughter.
“I wish I’d met her.”
He leans in to give me a kiss. Slow, at first. But then intense, hungry. I wrap my leg around him, feeling my skin tingling. Heat floods my body. I’m about to suggest that we go inside—but then I pull away.
“What is it?” he asks. His tone is soft, concerned.
This is it. I’m going to ask him to leave his wife. I can feel my heartbeat pulsating on my fingertips. I’m hopeful, which means I’m also terrified—with me, optimism is always weighed down by fear.
“We’ve been seeing each other for over a year now. And it’s been wonderful—”
“Are you…breaking up with me?” His tone drops a register.
“Of course not,” I say. I nearly laugh. The idea of breaking up with Daniel is preposterous.
His chest deflates. “You had me worried.” He’s smiling now—pleased, relieved. It’s touching, seeing his spike of fear at the idea of losing me. I should feel confident, buoyed. I don’t, though. I’m now even more afraid.
“It’s sort of the opposite of that.”
He cocks his head to the side.
“I want us to be together,” I continue. “For real.” I sit up, holding my breath.
“Do you mean…?” he asks, focusing his gaze on mine. The sky is now painted in hues of red and pink.
“I want you to get a divorce and be with me.” A clear delivery. I’m proud of myself.
“I didn’t know you wanted that.”
“I didn�
�t, either. Not until now.”
Daniel knows about my childhood—all of it. My dad’s family across town. My mom’s substance abuse problem. He even knows about the fights, about how helpless I felt having to watch my dad terrorize my mom. He’s the only person in my life who does. Well, him and Julie.
“Are you saying you’d be open to something more…” Daniel pauses. “Permanent?”
I nod, sheepishly. I feel my mouth stretching into a smile. I shouldn’t be celebrating, not yet. But I can see how excited he looks—I know we’re on the same page.
He leans in and gives me another kiss. “You’ve made me so happy.”
“I’m asking you to give up a lot,” I say, looking into his eyes. I am thinking of Angie. He knows this. There is no need to point it out.
Angie isn’t Daniel’s biological daughter, a fact that she is not aware of. This, more than anything, is what’s so tricky about our situation: Tatiana has made it clear that she’ll tell Angie the truth if Daniel leaves her. I know this because she issued this threat in my presence. I was their therapist, after all.
I began seeing Daniel and Tatiana in early January of 2017. Their problems were not uncommon. Tatiana blamed Daniel for being a workaholic, which left her feeling isolated and lonely, especially after Sam was born (“I’m all alone in that big house with no one to talk to!”). Daniel depicted Tatiana as someone who was image-obsessed and materialistic (“How is it possible I’m making six figures and we don’t have any savings?”). In our first session, I assured them that the challenges they faced were by no means insurmountable, as long as they were willing to do the work: on themselves and on their relationship. They said they were, which is how I became their counselor.
At first, they both seemed to be making progress. Daniel made an effort to be home at a decent hour. Tatiana began spending time with Sam at the park, not the mall. They spent more time together as a family—tobogganing, ice-skating, cooking dinners.
