Even if Brett told the kids himself, I was the one here. I was the one who’d have to pick up the pieces of their broken hearts. I was the one who’d have to console them and make sure they knew they were loved and cherished and wanted.

I sank down onto my bed, wishing someone could please fucking do that for me.

* * *

An hour later, I was still lying on my bed when I got another text.

Brett: I told them. Maybe you should check on Whitney. She seemed upset.

“She seemed upset?” I yelled at my phone. “Of course she did, you dipshit asshole!”

Hating him all over again, I changed his name to Dipshit Asshole in my Contacts, got off my bed, and went to her bedroom door.

“Whit?” I knocked twice. “Can I come in?”

“Why?”

I swallowed hard. “I want to talk.”

“Fine.”

Slowly, I turned the knob and pushed the door open, entering the room. Whitney lay on the bed on her side, facing away from me, but I could tell she was crying.

“Did you talk to your dad?”

“Yes. He doesn’t want us to visit. After he promised we could go skiing.”

Shutting the door behind me, I went over and sat on the edge of the bed. “I know. He hasn’t been awesome about keeping his promises, has he?”

“He doesn’t love us anymore.”

“Of course he does.” I brushed her blond hair off her forehead.

“I hate him,” she said, crying harder.

I leaned over, pressing my lips to her temple. “It’s okay to feel angry, sweetheart. All the things you feel are okay.”

“He cares more about her than he does about us. And now he’ll care more about that baby,” she sobbed. “He doesn’t even want us anymore.”

“No, honey. That’s not true.” Even if it felt true.

She rolled away from me and sat up, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “It is true, Mom! And I hate him for it! And I hate that I still love him and miss him! I don’t want to.”

It was taking all my strength not to break down and cry too, but I wanted to be a rock for my daughter—one solid thing she could depend on. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t even care that he left,” she wept. “You’re not even sad.”

“Of course I’m sad, Whitney. Why would you say that?”

“You don’t even cry!” She jumped off the other side of the bed and faced me, mascara-streaked tears streaming down her face. “You act like it doesn’t even matter that he left us! And you must have done something to make him want to go, because why else would he do it?”