Roland walked into the house looking stunned.
He stared at the staircase.
The marble.
My mother’s portrait.
“You grew up here?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I looked at him.
“Because I wanted to know who you would be if you thought I had nothing.”
He flinched.
“And now I know.”
We sat in the library.
Roland apologized.
For dinner.
For the car.
For everything.
Then he started blaming Beverly.
“It was Mom’s idea…”
I stopped him.
“Your mother texted me before you even left the driveway.”
I showed him the message.
He went pale.
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
He looked confused.
“Then why doesn’t that matter?”
“Because you took the car yourself.”
I kept my voice calm.
“You took the infant seat. The diaper bag. You left your wife and six-day-old daughter at home without transportation.”
I took a breath.
“And then you went to a family dinner with seven plates.”
