My Daughter and I Left My Fickle Husband

I held my daughter, Sadie Halstead, in my arms, feeling completely hollowed out.

The security footage kept replaying in my head, frame by frame. I couldn't make it stop.

She was only five.

She had spent three days and three nights all by herself.

I gently pulled back and cupped her face, looking her over carefully.

There was a bruise on her left cheekbone from falling off the couch. A scrape on her chin had already scabbed over.

I took her hand and pushed up her sleeve. The skin underneath was red and swollen, covered in blisters. Some had already burst and were seeping pale yellow fluid.

The tears came before I could stop them.

"Does it hurt?"

Sadie pulled her hand back slightly and shook her head.

"Not anymore. I put toothpaste on it. It felt cool, so it stopped hurting."

She was five years old.

She'd been scalded by boiling water, and the only thing she could think to do was put toothpaste on the burn.

She didn't know she was supposed to keep the burn under cool running water for twenty minutes. She didn't know broken blisters could get infected. She didn't know a burn this bad needed medical attention.

She didn't know any of that.

And where had her father been?

At the beach with another woman's daughter.

Drinking wine. Taking pictures. Posting them online.

I opened my text thread with Gavin Halstead. Our last exchange was from three days earlier.

Before I left, I'd texted him.

Me: [Denise has a family matter to take care of, so she's off this week. You need to come home on time and take care of Sadie while I'm gone.]

His reply had been two words.

Gavin: [Got it.]

Then three days passed.

Not one text.

Not one phone call.

I called him. The phone rang seven or eight times before he finally picked up.

There was a lot of noise in the background, like he was at a mall. I could hear children laughing and shouting.

"You're back?" he asked casually, as if we were talking about the weather.

"Gavin, you haven't been home in three days."

"Oh. Something came up with a project. I asked Denise to..."

"Denise took time off. I told you before I left."

He went quiet for two seconds.

"What about Sadie? She's okay, right?"

Okay?

I looked at the bruise on her face, the scrape on her chin, and the burn on her hand.

"She had a 102-degree fever and split a fever-reducer tablet in half by herself. She fell off the couch and scraped her face. She spilled boiling water on her hand, and the blisters burst. And you're asking me if she's okay?"

My voice shook, rising almost to a shout.

He fell silent for a moment.

When he finally spoke, there was irritation in his voice.

"All right, all right. Kids get bumps and bruises all the time. Stop making such a big deal out of it. I'll come home tonight and check on her."

Then he hung up.

The call cut off, and the harsh beep in my ear felt like a needle.

I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white.

Sadie tugged at my shirt and looked up at me cautiously.

"Mommy, don't be mad, okay? I got burned because I wasn't careful. It's not Daddy's fault.

"Daddy said he had something really important to do. He told me to be good and wait for him. He said when he was done, he'd take me to KFC."

Her eyes lit up as she spoke. She really believed a promise he was never going to keep.

I couldn't bring myself to tell her the truth.

The father she'd waited three days for, the man who'd supposedly had something "really important" to do, had been helping Celeste Rowan's daughter, Millie, build sandcastles on the beach.

I crouched down to her level and looked her in the eyes.

"Sweetheart, Mommy needs to ask you something. I want you to tell me the truth.

"Does Daddy stay away from home a lot?"

Sadie bit her lower lip and looked down, twisting the hem of her shirt between her fingers.

After a long pause, she answered softly, "Sometimes.

"But Daddy says grown-ups are always busy, so I should just play by myself.

"He says Millie doesn't have a daddy, so she has it worse than I do. He says I need to be a big girl and not be so clingy."

It felt like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it hurt.

He expected a five-year-old to be a "big girl."

Big enough not to cry when she had a fever.

Big enough not to call for help when she got burned.

Big enough to pick herself up when she fell and hurt her face.

For three days and three nights, she'd endured all of it on her own.

All because someone else's child supposedly had it worse?

What about his own daughter, curled up on the floor, bruised and trembling? Didn't she deserve his sympathy too?