Then I remembered how my father used to look at Mark whenever he thought nobody was watching.
My father had never fully trusted my husband.
For thirty-one years, I had defended Mark against that suspicion.
Now, sitting beside my son in a cemetery, I wondered whether my father had noticed something I had spent too long refusing to see.
“Grandpa hated Dad,” Daniel said suddenly.
Despite everything, a small, painful smile crossed my face.
“He didn’t hate him.”
“He absolutely hated him.”
“He thought your father was arrogant.”
Daniel let out a bitter laugh. “Mom, that’s your way of saying he hated him.”
I looked toward the headstone.
My father had been a quiet man. He wasn’t wealthy, but he was careful with money, loyal to his family, and uncomfortable around people who needed everyone else to know how successful they were.
At my wedding, nine years before he died, he had pulled me aside while Mark greeted guests.
“Carol,” he had said, “I hope I’m wrong about that man.”
I had frowned. “Dad, what are you talking about?”
“Nothing you need to worry about today. I just want you to remember something. Love someone with your whole heart, but never give away so much of yourself that you can’t stand when they disappoint you.”
I had thought he was being unfair.
Mark was charming, ambitious, and confident. My father had mistaken confidence for arrogance, I told myself. He had spent his life working hard and expected everyone else to live by his rules.
Now I wanted to return to that day and ask my father what he had seen.
Daniel followed my gaze.
“What do we do now?”
I looked at my son.
“We find out the truth.”
“I already know the truth.”
“We know they’re having an affair. We don’t know how long it’s been happening, whether money is involved, or what else they’ve been hiding.”
