you money to buy a new SUV.”
My mother looked away.
“I didn’t send you money to renovate the kitchen.”
Brianna crossed her arms.
“We needed those things.”
I looked at her.
“We?”
She immediately stopped talking.
I stepped closer.
“I didn’t send you money so my wife could sleep in a storage shed while you and your daughter lived like queens.”
Lucy covered her mouth.
She was crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just silently.
The kind of crying someone does after they have been hurt for so long that they no longer expect anyone to save them.
I hated myself for not knowing.
For four years, I had believed my wife was happy.
I believed every forced smile.
Every short phone call.
Every “I’m okay.”
I believed them because I loved her.
And they used that love against me.
Theresa suddenly changed her expression.
The anger disappeared.
The victim
