Chapter 10 - The Desperate Retaliation
My father stood up from his chair. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up the manila folder containing the forged checks, the bank statements, and the hospice records, and held it out toward Uncle Richard.
“Richard,” my father said, ignoring his sister completely. “You have forty-eight hours to put your house on the market and sign a legally binding promissory note to repay the seventeen thousand, four hundred dollars to Mom’s estate. Every penny of that money will go into a college trust fund for Rowan.”
Richard swallowed hard and nodded numbly. “Yes, Arthur. Anything. I swear to you, I will take an extra shift at the plant. I’ll sell my truck.”
“No!” Patrice shrieked, lunging toward the folder. “Richard, you will not sell our home! That money was Mom’s gift to us! She gave it to me!”
Richard caught Patrice by the wrists, holding her back. For the first time in thirty years of marriage, Richard looked at his wife with pure, unadulterated disgust. “Shut up, Patrice. Shut your mouth before Arthur calls the district attorney tonight. You lied to me. You stole from your dying mother. You dragged this innocent baby through the dirt. If you say one more word, I’m packing my bags tonight and leaving you to face the criminal charges alone.”
Patrice froze. The reality of her total, absolute ruin finally settled over her like a suffocating shroud.
Her eyes darted to me—standing proud and calm beside Grant, who had placed his hand firmly and protective on the small of my back.
“You think you won, don’t you?” Patrice hissed at me, her face twisting into an ugly, hateful sneer. “You think you’re so pure and righteous, Nora. But Grant will always look at that red hair and wonder. Every time she misbehaves, every time she looks at him sideways, that little seed of doubt will sprout right back up. Because you can’t un-ring a bell, darling. I planted it, and it will grow until it chokes both of you.”
Before my father or Richard could react, Grant stepped forward.
“My daughter carries my grandmother’s blood, Patrice,” Grant said with a terrifying, icy finality. “And she carries my heart. The only thing choked in this family is your sickness. Get out of Arthur’s house before I call the police myself.”
Richard dragged Patrice toward the door. She didn't fight him, but as she crossed the threshold, she cast one final, venomous glare back into the room—a look of pure malice that promised this wasn't over, even if her life was in tatters.
The door slammed shut.
The living room fell into an exhausted, heavy stillness. Grant turned to me, his eyes overflowing with tears. He dropped to his knees right in front of me, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face into my stomach.
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“I’m sorry,” he wept, his body shaking violently. “I am so, so sorry, Nora. I was weak. I let them poison me. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve Rowan.”
I looked down at my husband, feeling the cold exhaustion of the past year finally wash away, replaced by the heavy, complicated work of healing. I rested my hand on his hair. “Stand up, Grant. We have a long way to go. But first, you’re going to throw that swab kit in the incinerator with your own hands.”
