“That’s Mom-language for hate.”
He was right, in a way.
Dad never fully trusted Mark.
At my wedding, he pulled me aside.
He said:
“Carol, I hope I’m wrong about him.”
Then:
“But never give away so much of yourself that you can’t stand if someone disappoints you.”
For thirty-one years, I thought Dad had been unfair.
That night, sitting beside his grave, I wanted to apologize.
Daniel looked at me.
“You said we were going to do something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“We don’t confront them tonight.”
His expression hardened.
“Why?”
“Because right now, we are angry.”
I looked at the hotel video.
“And they’re comfortable.”
“I don’t want them comfortable.”
“Neither do I.”
I took the phone back.
“But if we storm in there, they delete messages.”
He stared at me.
“They move money.”
His jaw tightened.
“They start building stories.”
I held his gaze.
