A minute later, my father appeared at the doorway.
He did not come in immediately.
“May I?” he asked.
I nodded.
He approached slowly.
“When your brother died,” he said, “I made decisions out of grief. I thought if I kept you away from the inheritance, the machinery, the enemies that gather around money, then you could have a life.”
I looked at him. “I did have a life.”
“I know.”
“And it was invaded anyway.”
His face tightened. “Yes.”
I turned toward the glass. Outside, the lawns rolled silver beneath winter light.
“Did Adrian ever love me?”
My father did not answer quickly.
That was kindness.
“I think,” he said, “Adrian loved how he felt beside you until resentment became larger than love.”
A tear slipped down my cheek.
“I hate him,” I whispered.
My father stood beside me. “Good.”
I looked at him, startled.
He gave the faintest smile. “For now. Hate has energy. Use it carefully.”
