Her period had started, and she couldn't drink. Besides, she was still seething.
Wilfred had humiliated her in front of everyone. She wanted nothing more than to drag him back and force him to his knees, to make him apologize in front of every guest.
How dare he?
A man who lived off her charity. A man who couldn't survive a week without her support. How dare he demand a divorce—and act so righteous about it?
If anyone was going to file, it should have been her.
Her gaze drifted toward the door.
Wilfred, you'd better not come back. Because if you do, I'll make you regret it.
The party ended early.
Hildegarde declined Patrick's offer to stay and help. She bathed Hilary, then put her to bed.
The truth was, she wasn't used to caring for children.
For five years, Wilfred had handled nearly everything—both girls. She'd never even changed a diaper.
By the time Hilary finally fell asleep, Hildegarde was exhausted. She had just laid down when—
"Mommy, I'm itchy!"
Hilary wriggled against her like a restless kitten, scratching at her face and arms.
Hildegarde switched on the lamp. Her daughter's face was flushed red, and angry welts spread from her neck down to her chest.
An allergic reaction.