“That’s Mom-language for hate.”
Dad had never fully trusted Mark.
At my wedding, he’d pulled me aside and warned, “Carol, I hope I’m wrong about him. But never give away so much of yourself that you can’t stand if he disappoints you.”
For thirty-one years, I’d believed he’d judged Mark unfairly.
That night, I wanted to apologize.
Daniel turned to me.
“You said we were going to do something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“We don’t confront them tonight.”
His expression hardened.
“Why?”
“Because right now, we’re angry and they’re comfortable.”
“I don’t want them comfortable.”
“Neither do I.”
I took back my phone.
“But if we warn them now, they get time to delete messages, move money, and prepare stories. We need to know what we’re dealing with first.”
Daniel considered that, then nodded.
Dad had been an accountant. Whenever trouble arose, he’d say, “First find out what is true. Then decide what it costs.”
