Chapter 7: What He Did Before the Hearing
I found out what Daniel had done two weeks before the evidentiary hearing, when Grace called me on a Tuesday afternoon with a voice that was careful in the way that meant she was managing her own reaction before she managed mine.
"He contacted your employer," she said.
I was in the parking garage at work.
I sat down on the concrete barrier next to my car.
"What did he say?"
"He called your HR department and told them you had been experiencing significant mental health difficulties.
That you had been behaving erratically.
That he was concerned about your ability to perform your duties." A pause.
"He suggested they might want to conduct a wellness review."
The garage was very quiet.
"He used the anxiety," I said.
"Yes."
I had been treated for anxiety during my second trimester.
A brief course of therapy, a low-dose prescription for six weeks.
Daniel had known.
He had sat in the waiting room of the therapist's office and held my hand and told me he was proud of me for getting help.
He had filed that information away.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Your manager — a woman named Patricia — called him back and told him that employee wellness was an internal matter and that unsolicited calls from spouses were not part of their process.
She then called you directly, I assume?"
"She left me a voicemail this morning.
I hadn't listened to it yet."
"Listen to it," Grace said.
"Patricia also sent a formal written response to Daniel's call, which she has agreed to provide as documentation.
It establishes that he made the contact, what he said, and that it was rejected." Another pause.
"Jennifer, this is actually useful to us.
He just demonstrated, in writing, that he is willing to attempt to destabilize your employment as a pressure tactic."
"He told me he would," I said.
"At the baptism.
He said he'd make the next two years difficult."
"Do you have that recorded?"
"No.
He said it quietly.
Just to me."
"Your testimony is enough." Grace's voice shifted slightly — the careful management dropping just a fraction.
"He's frightened, Jennifer.
Frightened people make mistakes.
He just made one."
I listened to Patricia's voicemail in the car.
*Jennifer, I want you to know that we received a call this week that I found completely inappropriate, and I want you to hear directly from me that it has had no effect on how this department views your work or your standing here.
If you need anything from us in the coming weeks — documentation, flexibility, anything at all — please come and see me.
We're in your corner.*
I listened to it twice.
Then I sat in the parking garage for a while, in the quiet and the dim light, and let myself feel something I hadn't allowed in a long time.
Not triumph.
Not anger.
Just the specific relief of being seen clearly by someone who had chosen to be fair.
I called my mother that evening.
"He went after my job," I told her.
She was quiet for a moment.
"Is it handled?"
"Yes."
"Then he's panicking," she said.
"Good."
"Mom—"
"Jennifer." Her voice was firm and warm at the same time, the voice she had used my entire life when she wanted me to hear something clearly.
"You have done everything right.
You have been patient and careful and you have not done a single thing you will regret.
Whatever he does now, he is the one who is frightened.
Not you."
Lily made a sound from the other room.
"I have to go," I said.
"I know.
Jennifer?"
"Yes."
"I'm proud of you."
May you like
I held the phone for a moment after she hung up.
Then I went to get my daughter.
