Chapter 7 - THE HOURS THEY MADE ME WORK
I had asked for those Saturday clients.
That was the part that almost made me doubt myself.
Nobody dragged me into Harbor & Pine.
Nobody held a gun to my head and made me open appointment slots.
Thomas did something quieter.
He gave me numbers.
“The mortgage is behind.”
“Mom’s prescription plan changed.”
“Cassandra can’t cover her prenatal deductible.”
“Oliver’s camp cost more than we thought.”
“My commissions are down.”
Every statement created a gap.
I filled gaps.
That was what I did.
Saturday bridal party?
Take it.
Late balayage?
Take it.
Six clients before Christmas Eve?
Take them.
Then Beatrice sat at home writing:
Mara absent again.
Erin asked me to reconstruct the last eighteen months.
Not from memory alone.
From booking software.
School calendars.
Medical records.
Texts.
Bank deposits.
It was humiliating.
Also clarifying.
Every time Thomas claimed we were short, I added hours.
Three days later, hidden money left the joint account.
Or a Carter Coastal payment appeared.
Or Beatrice received a transfer.
I stared at the spreadsheet Denise built.
“This is not random.”
“No.”
“Can we prove he intentionally made me work?”
“We can show correlation.”
Erin leaned forward.
“Intent comes from communications, admissions, context.”
“Beatrice’s notebook.”
“Potentially.”
“She literally wrote ‘encourage Saturdays.’”
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“What does that do for custody?”
“Custody is not punishment for financial misconduct.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
She continued.
“Maine courts focus on the child’s best interests. Thomas has a relationship with Oliver. You have a relationship with Oliver. Your work schedule is relevant, but so is how schedules were created, who provides care, stability, school involvement, and whether either parent is manipulating evidence.”
“So he doesn’t automatically get Oliver because I work.”
“No.”
I exhaled.
That should have been obvious.
Fear makes obvious things disappear.
The school records helped.
I attended every parent conference.
Every pediatric visit but one.
Signed every reading log.
Paid every activity fee.
Oliver’s teacher wrote in an email:
Mara is consistently responsive despite a demanding work schedule.
The school pickup list showed Beatrice often collected him.
But Thomas did not.
He claimed in his affidavit that he “personally ensures school transportation most days.”
Records showed he had signed Oliver out six times in the previous semester.
Six.
Not most.
Erin smiled when she saw it.
“Documents are less sentimental than families.”
I wrote that down.
The next shift came from Cassandra.
She showed up at Harbor & Pine after closing.
Seven months pregnant now.
Puffy ankles.
No makeup.
I kept the door locked until she called me from outside.
“What do you want?”
“To give you something.”
“Give it to Erin.”
“I don’t want Mom knowing yet.”
My stomach tightened.
“Then definitely give it to Erin.”
She looked close to tears.
“Mara, please.”
I called Erin.
She advised I could accept documents if Cassandra voluntarily provided them, but not promise secrecy or legal outcomes.
So I let her in.
Cassandra placed a folder on the reception desk.
Inside were Carter Coastal invoices.
Furniture orders.
Lease documents.
Marketing mockups.
And a staffing plan.
Projected senior stylists:
Names of three women currently working for me.
I stared.
“Did you recruit my employees?”
“No.”
“Who wrote these names?”
“Thomas.”
“Did he talk to them?”
“I don’t know.”
I called one stylist, Amy.
She went quiet.
“Thomas asked if I’d consider a management role somewhere new.”
“When?”
“June.”
“Did he say where?”
“Falmouth.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew.”
Of course.
Everyone thought I knew.
That was how family businesses hid things.
Assumption did half the work.
Cassandra pushed another paper toward me.
“I thought you were going to become a silent owner.”
“I’m not even on the company.”
“He said that was temporary.”
“And you believed him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because I wanted it.”
Again.
Clean.
I could work with clean.
“What changed?”
She touched her stomach.
“Mom.”
“What about her?”
“She said something yesterday.”
I waited.
“She said after the divorce, Thomas would keep the house until Oliver finished elementary school.”
“That was his request.”
“She said then they could sell it.”
I laughed.
“They cannot sell a house he doesn’t own.”
“I said that.”
“What did she say?”
Cassandra looked at me.
“She said, ‘Mara will trade the house before she risks losing Oliver.’”
My skin went cold.
There it was.
Not law.
Pressure.
They did not need a court to award Thomas my house.
They needed me frightened enough to negotiate it away.
Cassandra continued.
“And Mom said the salon would be easy because you’d be too tired to fight both.”
I sat down.
“How long have you known they were planning divorce?”
“Maybe two months.”
“You said spring.”
“Thomas talked about separation in spring. I didn’t know he was planning to file.”
“Did he ever say what he wanted?”
She nodded.
“The house.”
“Anything else?”
“The salon.”
“Oliver?”
Her face changed.
“Mara.”
“Answer.”
“He said Oliver would make sure you cooperated.”
The room went silent.
“Exactly what words?”
“He said, ‘She’ll give up money before she gives up time with him.’”
My throat tightened.
This was no longer a family argument over lobster.
Not a greedy sister-in-law wanting a salon.
Not a mother-in-law who disliked me.
Thomas believed my love for our son was a negotiable asset.
Cassandra started crying.
“I didn’t know it was like that.”
“You knew enough.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you helping me now?”
She looked toward the mirrors.
“Because I asked Thomas what I actually own in Cass & Coast.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
I stared.
“What?”
“The LLC says manager, but the operating agreement he showed the lender gives Thomas seventy percent and Mom thirty.”
“What about you?”
“My name is the brand.”
I almost laughed.
He had done to Cassandra what he was doing to me.
Used her.
Just with better food.
“What did he tell you?”
“That ownership would transfer after opening.”
“Any document?”
“No.”
“Then you were the face.”
She nodded.
“And I was the money.”
“Yes.”
For the first time, Cassandra looked less like my enemy and more like someone standing one room behind me in the same house.
Not innocent.
Not yet an ally.
But looking toward the same door.
Then my phone buzzed.
Erin.
She had received Thomas’s amended financial affidavit.
His claimed monthly income:
$5,200.
I stared.
“He makes more than that.”
“Yes.”
“Why report five-two?”
“He excluded commissions as variable.”
“His commissions are half his pay.”
“I know.”
“Can we show it?”
“Yes.”
Then Erin said:
“And his affidavit says you voluntarily chose your extended schedule because you ‘prefer work to domestic responsibilities.’”
I closed my eyes.
“Anything else?”
“One line.”
“What?”
“He says Beatrice repeatedly offered to reduce your work hours by contributing financially to the household.”
I looked at Cassandra.
She heard.
Her mouth dropped open.
May you like
Beatrice had taken more than $100,000 from us.
Now she was telling the court she offered to support me.
