And my father? He didn't even have the decency to look guilty. He told my mother to be more gracious about it.
Frederick Sullivan is only two years younger than me.
My mother spent over two decades building that family for my father. And today she learned her husband had been betraying her the entire time.
Delia Lambert, our housekeeper, had been uneasy. She called me while I was out picking up the anniversary cake.
I broke every speed limit getting home.
I was too late.
My mother stepped off the rooftop terrace just as I pulled into the driveway. Her body hit the hood of my car. Blood sprayed across the windshield.
While I was drowning in grief, barely holding myself together to arrange her funeral, my father was busy consoling his mistress.
And my devoted wife? She wanted to "comfort" the son of the woman who killed my mother?
A thought sliced through me—ugly and undeniable.
"Rosemary." I watched her face carefully. "You already knew Frederick. You knew exactly who he was. Didn't you?"
"I..."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyes betrayed her.