Thomas’s eyes shone, but he did not come closer.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “Not until Celia’s lawyer contacted me. Your mother told me the baby hadn’t survived. Then Arthur destroyed me before I could ask more questions.”
My mother sobbed once.
Arthur whispered, “Margaret.”
But she did not look at him.
She looked at me with the terror of a woman who had lost control of a story she had edited for decades.
I folded the birth certificate with care and placed it back into the envelope.
Then I looked around the room: the expensive curtains, the polished floors, the family portraits where I had always stood slightly apart, the dining room where my children had learned shame from people who owed them shelter.
Thirty days suddenly felt generous.
I turned to Evelyn. “Proceed with everything.”
My mother gasped.
Brent exploded. “You can’t be serious!”
