Harold’s jaw tightened.
She pointed at me.
“You were never like this before Emma.”
I lowered my hand.
“Oh, please.”
Grace ignored me.
“You used to tell me everything. You called me every day.”
“I was seventeen.”
“You told me who you were dating.”
“Because you interrogated me.”
“I cared.”
“You read my diary.”
Grace
froze.
So did I.
I turned toward Harold.
“You had a diary?”
“Journal,” he muttered.
Despite everything, I nearly laughed.
Grace didn’t.
“That was different.”
Harold looked at her.
“How?”
“You were a child.”
“I was nineteen.”
“You were still my child.”
“I’m forty-one.”
“You will always be my child.”
Harold’s voice became quieter.
“And that does not make my marriage yours.”
The hallway fell silent.
Grace stared at him as though she had never heard him say anything more hurtful.
Harold continued.
“This house belongs to Emma and me. This bedroom belongs to Emma and me. Our marriage belongs to Emma and me. There are parts of my life that are not yours.”
The anger drained from Grace’s face.
What replaced it was worse.
Hurt.
Not ordinary hurt.
Strategic hurt.
Her eyes became glossy.
Her lower lip trembled.
“I see.”
Harold briefly closed his eyes.
I knew that tone.
“
I see what she has done to you.”
“Mom.”
“No. I understand.”
She pressed a hand dramatically against her chest.
“I raised you alone. I worked two jobs. I sat beside your bed when you were sick. I sacrificed everything. Then some woman comes along and suddenly your own mother is treated like an outsider.”
I watched Harold’s shoulders tense.
