A month later, after internal review and a very ugly round of whispered calls no one could stop, he was asked to resign.
Margaret told everyone my father had destroyed him.
That was never true.
Thomas destroyed himself the moment he decided a seven-month-pregnant wife in pain was less important than a spotless dinner and a polished career story.
My father simply refused to let powerful institutions mistake that man for a decent one.
Thomas called me for days.
He cried, apologized, blamed stress, blamed Margaret, blamed me, blamed my secrecy, blamed the baby, blamed the pressure of ambition.
In one message he even said that if I truly loved him, I would ask my father to fix things.
That message cured me of any lingering doubt.
I filed for divorce before our daughter was born.
The rest unfolded quietly compared to Christmas night.
I left the Whitmore house for good.
