Evan’s eyes met mine.
“Margaret,” he said warmly, as though we were meeting at a holiday gathering. “Terrible day.”
Celeste tilted her head, her red lips gleaming. She leaned close enough for me to catch her perfume.
“Looks like I win,” she murmured.
My throat burned.
For a single second, I was not a mother. I was a storm. I wanted to rip the veil from her hair, drag Evan by his perfect collar, scream until the stained glass shattered.
But I looked down at Emma’s hands.
Still.
Forever.
So I swallowed my scream.
Evan expected tears. A scene. A shattered old woman collapsing in grief while he performed the grieving husband for the cameras outside. He had always believed I was small because I spoke softly. He thought age made me weak. He thought grief made me foolish.
