She came anyway.
She watched me carry a box of books toward the door.
“You have always been dramatic,” she said.
I kept walking.
“You have torn this family apart.”
I stopped.
The old Evelyn would have explained.
She would have gathered evidence, softened her language, and tried to earn understanding from a woman committed to misunderstanding her.
I set the box down.
“Your son had a year-long affair.”
“I am aware.”
“You helped him conceal it.”
“I protected my child.”
“So did I.”
Her gaze dropped toward my stomach.
At thirty-three weeks, there was no hiding the baby.
The curve beneath my dress had become the first thing strangers noticed.
“You are carrying a Caldwell,” Marjorie said.
“No.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“The baby is Grant’s.”
“The baby is herself.”
“She is not a family possession.”
“You cannot erase her blood.”
“I am not trying to.”
