And there it was.
The shift.
The moment the blame needed somewhere else to land.
“This is because of her.”
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.
