Like she’d been waiting for him to finally say it out loud.
Sophie looked at Grace. Grace looked at Olivia. Something passed silently between them—and in that moment I understood something terrifying:
They knew more than I did.
“It’s over,” I said.
Daniel frowned. “What?”
“It’s over. You don’t get to say those words about my granddaughters ever again. You’re done.”
He smiled—thin, arrogant, rotten.
“Do whatever you want. I’ve wasted enough time.”
That was the last conversation we had as family.
I took the girls home that same day. Daniel didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even ask when he’d see them again.
He handed them over like paperwork.
The drive was silent.
That night, I did what I’ve always done when chaos breaks through the door—I put things in order. Clean sheets. Warm soup. Towels folded. Lights left on.
Small things.
People underestimate small things. A made bed can keep a person from falling apart.
I didn’t sleep.
Sometime around 2 a.m., sitting alone at the kitchen table with cold coffee in my hands, a thought came to me—one that made me feel sick with shame.
Maybe Emily hadn’t just died from exhaustion.
Maybe she’d been worn down.