"Big brother, Rosemary gave me another diamond ring yesterday. Our initials are engraved on it. I heard it's even bigger than the one from your wedding."
"Oh, and she convinced her father to give me the family's jade thumb ring—you know, the heirloom they only pass to sons-in-law? Not that you'll be needing it anymore."
I remembered that ring.
The Henson family tradition was clear: it went to a son-in-law only after a grandchild was born. All those years, Rosemary never once asked her father for it on my behalf. "We'll have children eventually," she'd say. "It'll come to you naturally."
I'd never pushed for kids either—not when she was still running around with other men. We'd planned to start trying after the new year.
Now that plan was as dead as everything else.
I couldn't imagine what she'd said to make Tim Henson—traditional, rigid, immovable Tim Henson—break his own family's rules.
The final message was a photo.
Rosemary, asleep. Her bare neck and shoulders were covered in marks—the kind left by someone's mouth.
"Sis says she hasn't felt this good in years. Apparently being with an 'old man' like you killed her mood. She had to fake it every time."
I didn't bother responding.