Lost the Treasure, Kept the Trash

Emma's POV

I see Oliver again on Thanksgiving afternoon, in the parking lot outside Brooklyn Public Elementary.

Lily's hand is in mine, her small fingers clutching the craft project I helped her make last night – a turkey cut from cardboard. The edges are rough where I used the kitchen scissors, but Lily loves it.

"Mommy, I'm singing today!" She's looking up at me, eyes bright.

"I know." I crouch down and smooth her hair. "You're going to do great."

The parking lot is packed with cars, families streaming toward the auditorium. A cluster of mothers is gathered near the entrance, huddled together with their phones out, whispering. When they notice me, their voices drop even lower.

I don't acknowledge them. I'm used to the stares after years.

Inside, the auditorium is buzzing with noise. A banner hangs across the stage: "Grateful for You – Fall Family Day." Rows of folding chairs are filling up fast.

That's when I see him standing in the side corridor. Gray cashmere coat, navy scarf, still that camera-ready handsome face. But his shoulders are hunched, and there's something uncomfortable in the way he's holding himself.

My feet stop moving.

He sees me too. Something flickers in his eyes and he starts walking over quickly. As he gets closer, I catch the scent of his cologne. Six years, and he's still wearing the same one.

"Emma." His voice is low. "I need your help."

I don't respond.

"Just for this afternoon," he says, words tumbling out. "Pretend we're still together, in front of the other parents. The school invited me to speak, but this morning they suddenly canceled, said it was a 'scheduling conflict,' but I know it's because—"

"Because CBS suspended you and word got out."

His face goes stiff.

"So what?" I ask. "What's that got to do with me."

"Emma, please." There's a panic in his voice I don't recognize. "If other parents start asking about those allegations in front of the kids, Lily will—"

"Daddy!"

Lily pulls free from my hand and runs to him. She throws herself into his arms, pressing her face against his coat. "You came to see me perform!"

Oliver catches her, his movements awkward. He doesn't hold children often. The position looks unnatural on him.

"Of course," he says. "Dad wouldn't miss it."

Lily turns to look at me, her eyes full of hope.

I'm looking at her. She's six years old. She doesn't know what a suspension is, doesn't know what sexual harassment allegations mean, doesn't know her parents have nothing left between them except fifty-thousand-dollar transactions. All she knows is that Daddy showed up today.

"Fifty thousand," I say quietly, but loud enough for Oliver to hear. "Cash. Transfer it before this ends."

Oliver's throat bobs. After a long moment, he nods.

I take a seat in the third row, aisle side. Oliver sits next to me, deliberately keeping a polite distance.

On stage, the principal is giving his opening remarks. I'm not listening to him. My eyes are fixed on Lily in the choir, standing in the second row wearing the dress I've washed so many times the fabric has faded. She's holding her cardboard turkey.

"She looks taller," Oliver says softly.

I don't answer.

"Emma, about those allegations—"

"I don't want to hear it." I cut him off, still facing forward. "Our arrangement is simple. You pay, I play the part. Everything else is none of my business."

He goes quiet.

A woman in the front row turns around. I know her – she's another kid's mom from Lily's class. Her eyes move between Oliver and me, then she smiles. "Mrs. Mitchell, so nice to see you both here together. I was just telling someone, those stories on the news must be a misunderstanding."

"Yeah," I say, forcing my mouth into something resembling a smile. "Misunderstanding."

She turns back around. I can hear her whispering to the person beside her. "See? His wife's here. Those allegations have to be fake..."

Oliver's fingers are tapping against his knee. It's what he does when he's nervous.

The lights dim and the children start singing. Lily's voice is small, drowned out by the others, but she's trying hard.

I'm watching her, and my eyes are stinging for some reason.

Parents keep glancing our way. Some curious, some pitying, some just enjoying the spectacle. I sit there expressionless, like a statue.

Oliver looks like he wants to say something, then swallows it back.

For the entire hour, we sit like this. Close enough to hear each other breathe, but more distant than strangers.

By the time the event ends, it's getting dark outside. Parents are filing out with their kids as the parking lot lights flicker on.

Lily is pulling on Oliver's hand, bouncing. "Daddy, can we go home together?"

Oliver looks at me.

"No," I say. "We're taking the bus."

"The bus?" Oliver frowns. "I'll drive you. My car's right—"

"Don't need it."

"Emma, at least let me—"

"I said no."

Lily's smile is fading. She lets go of Oliver's hand and grabs my fingers instead.

"Well..." Oliver hesitates. "You're living in Dumbo, right? That loft apartment. Near the Brooklyn Bridge. I remember leaving you plenty of money. Why are you at this school?"

I stop walking.

"Loft apartment?" I turn to face him. The yellow streetlight falls across his face, and his expression looks genuinely confused.

"Yeah, the one in Dumbo," he says. "Market value four and a half million. I had Vivian transfer the deed to your name."

I'm staring at him.

He actually believes what he's saying. He actually thinks those arrangements went through.

A cold wind blows past and my fingers are going numb.

"If you're going to make up stories," I say, voice flat, "at least make them believable."

"What?"

"If I lived there," I continue, tone still level with no inflection, "my daughter would be at some Manhattan private school, not this place where kids line up for free lunch."

Oliver's face changes.

"The property you're talking about," I'm looking into his eyes, "I never saw a penny of it."

"That's impossible." His voice is getting urgent. "I specifically told Vivian to—"

He stops mid-sentence, like something just clicked. He's standing there with his mouth half open, unable to form words.

"The night you kicked me out," I say, my tone still that same flat calm, "my month-old daughter and I waited outside the women's shelter until dawn before anyone would take us in."