“You don’t get forgiveness because you finally understand.”
“I know.”
“You earn access to my daughters through actions.”
“I know.”
“And if you ever make either of them feel secondary again, that access disappears.”
Barbara whispered, “Understood.”
The girls came through the door soaked and laughing.
Grace waved a school certificate.
“I got a star!”
“For what?”
“Being brave enough to read in front of the class.”
Emily rolled her eyes affectionately.
“She read three sentences.”
“Three excellent sentences,” Grace insisted.
I laughed.
That evening, while the three of us ate pasta from mismatched bowls, I realized something.
The Whitmore story was getting louder behind us.
But our life was getting quieter.
And I preferred quiet.
Until Rebecca called.
“Claire, we traced the Riverside ownership.”
“And?”
“You need to sit down.”
I did.
“Your share isn’t eleven million.”
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“After valuation and appreciation… closer to thirty-two million dollars.”
