I smiled sadly.
“She has been giving him time for forty-two years.”
Dad looked down.
“She wants you to come over tonight. Just adults. To talk.”
“No.”
“Julia—”
“No. I will meet in Evelyn’s office with my attorney present.”
“She won’t like that.”
“She doesn’t have to.”
He nodded.
On January seventh, we met at Evelyn’s office.
The conference room had beige walls, a long table, and a fake plant in the corner that looked more alive than Brent’s conscience.
My mother arrived in a camel-colored coat and pearls, dressed for battle disguised as dignity. Brent came behind her, jaw tight, phone in hand. Cassandra followed, eyes shadowed. My father entered last and sat beside me, not my mother.
Everyone noticed.
My mother’s mouth compressed.
Evelyn sat at the head of the table. My attorney, Maya Singh, sat beside me with a yellow legal pad and the calm posture of someone who charged by the hour and was worth every cent.
