Then I turned to my mother.
“Mom, would you like to step outside for some air?”
She took my hand and together we walked out of that room, past the whispers, past the stares, past the man who’d spent 28 years trying to destroy us both. But I wasn’t done. Not even close.
My grandmother caught up to us in the parking lot, her heels clicking against the asphalt like gunshots.
“Tori, wait.”
I turned. Elellanar Whitmore was 78 years old with posture like a queen and eyes that missed nothing. She’d never liked Gerald.
“That man thinks he’s God’s gift to engineering,”
she’d told my mother before the wedding.
“But he’s just a small man with a big ego.”
Now, she looked at me with something I’d never seen in her face before. Urgency.
“There’s something I need to tell you,”
she said, glancing back to make sure Gerald hadn’t followed.
“Something I should have told you years ago.”
She led us to a bench overlooking the golf course. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and my grandmother’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper.
“The night you were born,”
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