“Instructions that weren’t supposed to be opened until after his death.”
The words struck me harder than the pain in my scalp.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Lucas specifically told me not to.”
“Why?”
“Because he didn’t trust everyone around you.”
I looked toward the house.
My father was still standing in the doorway of Lucas’s study.
Three weeks earlier, I had buried my husband.
Three weeks earlier, I thought the worst thing I would ever experience had already happened.
I was wrong.
Charles suddenly slammed his phone against the desk.
“You’ve made a mistake!” he shouted.
Whoever was on the other end said something.
Charles grabbed the phone again.
His voice became quieter.
“You listen to me. I’m her father.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
That was always his justification.
He was my father.
As though being my father meant he automatically owned every part of me.
My childhood.
My choices.
My finances.
My home.
My future.
Even now, while I carried Lucas’s child, he still seemed to see me as the frightened little girl who used to stand silently in the hallway while he argued with my mother.
