Then Michael’s brother.
Then his mother, who had always kept me at a slight distance.
“A family dinner,” I told each of them. “I want to celebrate the marriage properly. Please. It matters to me.”
They accepted because I sounded composed, because they cared about me, and because guilt carries enormous value inside a family that has already buried one daughter.
On Friday evening, Michael returned home smelling of whiskey.
“I ran into Dave at the hardware store,” he said, pulling at his tie. “He asked if we were selling the lake cabin.”
Clara’s lake cabin.
The only property she had left solely to me in her original will.
“Why would he think that?” I asked.
Michael avoided my gaze and lifted one shoulder.
“I might have mentioned we were considering it. For a fresh start.”
“You mentioned selling my cabin to a real estate agent,” I said.
My voice sounded colder than I intended.
He turned toward me, and for the briefest moment, something cruel surfaced in his expression.
Then it vanished behind the familiar mask.
“Our cabin, honey. We’re married now. And I only floated the idea. Don’t be difficult.”
Don’t be difficult.
I smiled and said I was exhausted.
“Sunday will be lovely,” I added. “Everyone’s coming.”
“Your mother. Your brother. My kids. It’s time.”
He blinked twice before giving a slow nod.
“That sounds nice, Evelyn. Really nice.”
He barely slept that night.
I felt him lying awake beside me, staring into the darkness and calculating.
