“She likes it.”
Then:
“And that laugh, Claire. Does she have to be so loud?”
“She’s a teenager.”
“She’s eighteen, not eight. Stop treating her like a princess.”
Every insult came disguised as parenting.
Discipline.
Concern.
Responsibility.
And every time, I told myself Adrian was tired.
Stressed.
Trying to prepare Sophie for adulthood.
Months earlier, Sophie had brought a bank statement to dinner.
“Mom, about the account Grandpa left me for college—”
Adrian immediately reached across the table.
“Not tonight.”
Sophie frowned.
“I just wanted to ask—”
“Your mother is exhausted.”
He scooped the statement up with the dirty dishes.
Then turned toward me.
“How was work? Your boss still driving everyone crazy over quarterly close?”
I remember feeling grateful.
Grateful.
Because Adrian had saved me from another conversation when I was tired.
Looking back, I hate that memory.
“IS ADRIAN GOOD TO SOPHIE?”
At a red light, Lola glanced at me.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Staring into space like you’re trying to solve something.”
I looked away.
Then she asked:
“Claire, is Adrian good to Sophie?”
My first answer came automatically.
“He pays the mortgage.”
Lola’s hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“He isn’t abusive.”
Even as I said it, I hated how desperately I needed it to be true.
“He’s strict.”
“Sophie is quiet.”
“They irritate each other.”
“Okay.”
Lola never pushed harder than I could handle.
Then I said:
“My father left Sophie money for college.”
“Okay.”
“Adrian manages that too.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“And everything’s fine.”
“I’m sure.”
She said it exactly the way I had said:
Adrian is a good provider.
Two women pretending together.
THE HOUSE ON WILLOWCREST LANE WAS TOO QUIET
Lola dropped me off.
I rolled my suitcase through the front door.
