The driver turned toward the lake.
Behind us, the hotel disappeared into the dark.
By the time we reached the house, the anger that had carried me through the ballroom had begun to drain away, leaving only exhaustion and a deep, bewildered ache.
I stepped inside with my overnight bag and stood in the dim hallway, surrounded by familiar shapes
covered in dust sheets.
My mother’s blue ceramic bowl still sat on the narrow table by the door.
I touched its rim, and the memory of her voice rose so clearly I almost expected her to come from the kitchen and ask why I looked so pale.
Instead, I was alone.
I called Daniel, my attorney, and told him I had reached the house safely.
“Are you certain you want to proceed tonight?” he asked, his voice steady but gentle.
“I’m certain I can’t go back to pretending everything is fine,” I said.
