At My Daughter’s….

He stepped closer.

“Do you know what people are saying about me?”

I laughed then. Not kindly.

“Yes,” I said. “And the fascinating part is that most of it came from your own behavior.”

He lowered his voice, perhaps remembering neighbors had windows.

“I made mistakes.”

“Mistakes are forgetting anniversaries and overwatering hydrangeas. An affair is a choice. Theft is a choice. Lying to a dying woman is a choice.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“The money wasn’t theft.”

“No?”

“It was temporary. I was moving things around. Cash flow. I was going to put it back.”

“When?”

He didn’t answer.

I picked up the shears again.

“You should leave.”

“Amber exaggerated—”

I looked up so fast he stopped talking.

To his credit, he looked ashamed. To his discredit, only for a second.

“You don’t get to use that woman as a weather report for your own character,” I said.

He stared at me.

Then something changed. The mask slipped. Out came the smaller, meaner man under the polished one.

“You always hated me,” he said.

“No. I didn’t.”

“You thought Caroline was too good for everyone.”

“Not everyone. Just you, as it turns out.”

He laughed once, bitter and short.

“She wasn’t perfect.”

That did it.

I set the shears down very carefully.

“No,” I said. “She wasn’t. She could be stubborn. She could be controlling about table settings and impossible when she was hungry. She overcommitted herself, cried at insurance commercials, and once repainted a whole guest room because the blue was ‘too apologetic.’ She was human.”