"Victoria." Dad's expression hardens. "That woman. I never understood what he saw in her. Cold as ice, that one."
"David," Mom says gently. "That's not?—"
"It's true, Helen. Twenty years he wasted with someone who only cared about his bank account." He drains his whiskey. "I told Grant from the beginning she was going to be a problem?—"
He stops mid-sentence, his eyes focusing on me again.
"What?" I ask, my voice coming out higher than intended.
"Stand up for a moment."
"What? Why?"
"Just stand up, Emma. Let me look at you."
This is it. This is where he sees. Where he knows.
I force myself to stand, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure they can both hear it. Dad's eyes travel over me, assessing, and I resist the urge to cover my stomach with my hands.
"You’ve put on a few pounds, haven't you?" He says it casually, almost laughing.
Mom makes a nervous sound that might be a laugh. "Emma looks beautiful."
"I'm not saying she doesn't. Just observing." He reaches out, and before I can step back, his hand pats my stomach. Right where the small swell curves beneath my dress.
I freeze. Completely freeze. My heart stops beating.
His hand lingers there for just a second too long, and then he's laughing, pulling back. "You might need to lay off the ice cream."
"I should go." The words tumble out in a rush. "I have an early shift at the restaurant tomorrow, and I need to—I should really?—"
"Emma, your father was just teasing." Mom stands, concerned. "Stay for coffee. We hardly ever see you anymore."
"No, I really—I have to go. Thank you for dinner. It was lovely." I'm already backing toward the door, grabbing my purse from where I left it on the side table. "I'll call you this week, Mom. Promise."
Dad's still sitting at the table, his whiskey glass in hand, and when I glance back at him, his eyes are sharp. Calculating.
He knows something is wrong. Maybe not what, but something.
"Drive safe," he calls after me.
I'm out the door and down the front steps before Mom can follow. In my car, I grip the steering wheel, my breath coming in short gasps.
He touched my stomach. Put his hand right there, where his grandchildren are growing.
I grab my phone out of my purse.
Me:I need you. Can I come over?
Grant's response is immediate.
Grant:Of course.
I start my car, pulling out of the driveway, from the house that has always felt like a prison.
My phone buzzes with another text from Grant.
Grant:Emma, are you okay? What happened?
