Then one of Ethan’s friends asked if I lived nearby.
Before I could answer, Ethan smirked.
“Frank lives in a tiny place across the river. Very humble. Lily keeps trying to help him, but pride is a disease.”
My daughter stared at her plate.
That hurt more than Ethan’s words.
“Actually,” I said quietly, “I’m comfortable.”
Ethan leaned back.
“There. That’s the problem. Some people mistake comfort for achievement.”
Lily closed her eyes.
For months, Ethan had pressured her to stop visiting me, stop taking my calls, and stop “supporting my negativity.”
Tonight, he apparently wanted me publicly humiliated.
When dessert arrived, he finally acted.
He pointed toward my chair.
“Security.”
Two uniformed guards entered.
The room fell silent.
Ethan smiled.
“Get him out. He doesn’t belong at this table.”
Lily went pale.
“Ethan—”
“No. I’m done pretending.”
Then she looked at me.
For one second, I waited for my little girl—the child who once fell asleep on my chest during thunderstorms—to stand up for me.
