“By calling her disgusting?”
“She vastly misunderstood the tenor of my voice.”
“By telling her that no one in this family would ever believe the word of an orphan?”
Helen’s mask slipped.
It was a microscopic failure of facial tension. A slight tightening of the skin around her mouth. A blink that lasted a fraction of a second too long. But it was entirely sufficient. Because those specific, venomous words were not something she ever anticipated being quoted back to her in the presence of the man who signed her exorbitant checks.
Sarah returned, sprinting into the room. She dropped to her knees beside Audrey, her hands shaking violently as she draped a thick, woven blanket over my wife’s trembling shoulders. My mother reappeared carrying a basin of warm water and a plush towel, but her gaze was firmly glued to the baseboards. She could not look at me.
I reached down, slipping my arms under Audrey’s armpits, and gently hoisted her to her feet. As she straightened, she let out a sharp hiss of pain. I looked down. Her knees were heavily mottled with dark, blossoming bruises from kneeling on the unforgiving stone.
I shifted my gaze to the woman who gave me life.
“How long?” I demanded, the silence stretching like a wire.
My mother kept her eyes on the floor.
“I asked you a question,” my voice cracked like a whip. “How long has this torture been operating inside my own home?”
Helen surged forward, a sudden, desperate edge creeping into her tone. “Your mother is fully aware that I have only ever sought to help your wife adjust to her new station in life. She is incredibly fragile, Nathan. She lacks fortitude. She requires strict discipline. Rigid structure. She fabricates absurd ideas in her head and—”
