And you cannot let them hurt your children too.
At 8:17 a.m., my phone rang again.
This time it was Brent.
I answered.
“Julia.”
His voice was different.
Not angry.
Not mocking.
Afraid.
“What did you send Mom?”
I said nothing.
“Julia, answer me.”
“What did you find?”
There was a long pause.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I think you should ask Mom.”
“She says the house belongs to you.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The truth.
The thing my family had ignored for years.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
Brent exhaled.
“But why now?”
I looked toward the hallway.
At Emma’s bedroom door.
At Noah’s.
“Because yesterday wasn’t the first time.”
He didn’t respond.
“Brent, do you remember Emma’s eighth birthday?”
Silence.
“Do you remember Mom telling her she couldn’t have a party because money was tight?”
“Julia—”
