I look at her. Cecily.
Philip’s little girl.
I hate that she made me unravel like that. But I couldn’t help it, not with the way she looked at me. From above, even though she’s a few inches shorter. Like I was filth she’d stepped in by accident. Like breathing the same air as me was beneath her.
I couldn’t let it end there. I needed the last word, even if it cut me too.
I just hope it won’t cost me too much.
“Am I?” I tilt my head, my gaze locked on hers. “Or are you lying to yourself, clinging to that perfect-family illusion because it’s easier than facing the truth?”
Cecily studies me, her eyes scanning my face as if searching for a lie she can hold on to.
“What would you even gain by making something like that up?” she says finally, her voice laced with contempt. “If it’s Colin you want, you can have him. He’s all yours.”
A laugh escapes me.
“Oh, Cecily,” I say. “What do you think your father was really doing on all those work trips he took? He wasn’t some world-famous speaker giving lectures for a week straight, and certainly not more than once a year.”
Sarcasm coats my words. Even she can’t be that naive.
“He always brought a large bouquet of red roses for my mom,” I say, lowering my voice, “and a smaller one of daisies for me.”
Her eyes widen, just slightly. But it’s enough. Enough to make my stomach twist.
He did the same with her and her mother, didn’t he?
“He used to say,‘Roses for my Grace.’”
My voice softens against my will. “My mother’s name was Graceline. He said she washisGrace.”
All those memories rush back, so sweet and too cruel.
“For almost a year, he practically lived with us,” I whisper.
“He even came to my school plays when I was in fifth grade. Everyone used to say he and my mom were the most beautiful couple they’d ever seen.”
And they were.
Mom had never looked as radiant as she did when she was loved by Philip.
I’ll never forget the first time I heard them sayI love you.
It was the middle of the night. I’d gone to the kitchen for water.
Mom was leaning against the counter in her robe, Philip in nothing but his pajama pants, his arms wrapped around her.
“I love you, my Grace,” he said.
She smiled, said she loved him more, and they kissed.
I froze, embarrassed, then ran back to my room, my face burning. But before falling asleep, I giggled under the covers, replaying their words.
It felt like one of those movie scenes Mom loved to watch, where love looked easy, beautiful, safe.
And they did love each other. That’s what makes it worse.
“No matter what your father tells you now,” I say finally, my voice low, “or whatever lies he feeds you to make peace with himself. He loved my mother. He loved her, and he was the one who destroyed her.”
