My father slowly looked up.
“She’s terminating the agreement.”
My mother shook her head.
“She wouldn’t.”
“She said never invite us again.”
“She was angry.”
“She hired an attorney three months ago.”
My mother’s eyes snapped toward him.
“How do you know that?”
“Because the letter says the documents were prepared over the last three months.”
Silence.
Three months.
That meant I hadn’t made my decision on New Year’s Eve.
Not really.
I had simply stopped pretending.
My mother sat down.
For the first time in years, she looked genuinely frightened.
Meanwhile, across town, I was sitting at my kitchen table with Emma and Noah.
Neither child had slept much.
I had barely slept at all.
I had made pancakes at midnight like I promised.
They were terrible.
The first batch burned.
The second was too thick.
The third somehow came out shaped like the state of Florida.
