But I wouldn’t be there to see the shock in their eyes. I wouldn’t be there to apologize. For once in five years, I wouldn’t be there at all. And that thought terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.
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Three days earlier, the sound of Vivien’s heels clicking across our hardwood floor always reminded me of a judge’s gavel: sharp, decisive, final. She swept into our kitchen like she owned it, which according to Hudson, she practically did, since they’d helped us with the down payment.
“Of course,” I replied, forcing brightness into my voice. “What can I do to help?”
Hudson looked up from his phone long enough to share a glance with his mother. I’d seen it thousands of times over the years, a silent communication that excluded me entirely, as if I were a child who couldn’t be trusted with adult conversations.
Vivien reached into her designer purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The way she handled it with such ceremony made my stomach twist into knots. She placed it on the counter next to me with the care of someone presenting evidence in court.
