I set down my wine glass, a cheap target find, nothing like the Waterford crystal my father drank from, and looked at the modest diamond on my finger. Nathan had designed the ring himself, based on a sketch I drawn years ago in a journal.
“It’s not about proving him wrong anymore,”
I said.
“It’s about freeing my mother.”
Nathan went quiet. He knew the story I was about to tell.
Five years ago, I’d gotten a call from my grandmother at 2:00 a.m. She’d found my mother in the bathroom with an empty bottle of sleeping pills. The paramedics arrived in time, but just barely. Since then, Diane had been on anti-depressants, seeing a therapist twice a week, building herself back piece by piece. Gerald never apologized. He never even acknowledged what his 23 years of accusations had done to her. He just kept insisting he was right.
My mother gave that man 35 years of loyalty. I told Nathan: complete faithfulness. And he repaid her with 28 years of calling her a liar.
I picked up my phone and pulled up a local genetics lab I’d researched months ago. Gan Trust: independent, certified, and most importantly, not connected to Gerald.
“I’ll take the test,”
I said.
“But I’ll do it my way.”
Two weeks later, Gerald turned 60. The party was held at the Fairfield Country Club. 18 holes of manicured green overlooking Long Island Sound, a private dining room with floor to ceiling windows and 30 relatives gathered to celebrate the man who’d made my mother’s life a prison. I wore a simple black dress. Nathan squeezed my hand as we walked in, whispering,
“2 hours. We can survive two hours.”
We couldn’t.
Halfway through dinner, after three glasses of Chateau Marggo, Gerald stood up to give a speech. He thanked everyone for coming. He praised Marcus for his brilliant career in finance. He raised a glass to my mother for her patience. Then his eyes found me.
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