Mark had nodded along, his mouth full of chicken. Later that night, after she’d left, he had turned to me with that same thin smile. ‘It makes sense, Clara. Financially, it’s brilliant.’
‘I’m not moving into your mother’s house,’ I said. ‘I’m not selling my home.’
His smile vanished. ‘My home too.’
‘My name is on the deed, Mark. You know that.’
That was the first crack. The argument that night had been loud, but not yet violent. He had sulked, slammed doors. I thought it was a storm that would pass. I was wrong.
The next week, Eleanor had come by unannounced. She walked through my rooms, touching my things with delicate, disdainful fingertips. ‘Such charming little pieces. They’ll look so nice in the guest wing. I’m thinking we can put your grandmother’s clock in the hallway.’
‘I haven’t agreed to anything,’ I told her.
Her eyes had hardened. ‘Clara, dear, don’t be unreasonable. Mark has explained the situation to me. A wife’s duty is to support her husband’s decisions.’
‘I’m not a wife who obeys, Eleanor. I’m a partner.’
She had laughed, a brittle sound like breaking glass. ‘We’ll see.’
That night, Mark came home late smelling of expensive whiskey. He didn’t shout. He spoke in a low, measured tone that was somehow more frightening. ‘You embarrassed my mother today,’ he said.
‘I simply stated the truth.’
‘Your truth,’ he corrected. ‘Not the truth that matters. The truth is, we need this move. My mother has debts. The mortgage on that house is more than she can handle alone. If we don’t help her, she’ll lose it. Is that what you want? To see my mother on the street?’
I stared at him, stunned. ‘You never told me that.’
‘It’s family business.’
