Vanessa had inherited her father’s ambition and her mother’s talent for making insults sound like compliments.
When Jared first brought her home, she admired our furniture.
“It’s so charming,” she said, touching the old oak dining table Thomas had made.
“Very rustic.”
A month later, I overheard her telling Jared that our house looked like a museum for people who didn’t know how to decorate.
I said nothing.
I told myself she was young.
That was the beginning of a habit that would nearly destroy me.
Every time Vanessa crossed a boundary, I moved mine a little farther back to keep the peace.
By the time Thomas became seriously ill, there was almost nothing left of it.
We sold our large suburban home after his condition worsened.
Managing the property, paying for specialized care, and traveling to appointments had become exhausting.
Jared suggested we stay in the guest suite of the townhome he and Vanessa rented outside Atlanta.
