“No, he didn’t.”
“You weren’t part of every conversation between us.”
“And you weren’t part of every conversation between Mark and me.”
Her expression sharpened.
“He kept things from you too.”
That hurt.
Because it was true.
But truth used as a weapon was still a weapon.
“Mark and I chose Cecelia’s name together.”
“Sally—”
“Go home.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I said go home.”
Her face changed.
“You’ve questioned whether Mark knew what he was doing. You’ve let other people question whether I manipulated him. And now you’re trying to rewrite what he wanted for our daughter.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I lost my son.”
“I know.”
“You have no idea what that feels like.”
“No. I don’t.”
I stepped closer.
“But you don’t know what it feels like to bury my husband while carrying the daughter he will never meet.”
