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I remembered more than he wanted me to.
When my husband h:it me, my parents saw the b:ruise — said nothing, and walked away. He smirked from his chair, beer in hand: “Polite little family you’ve got.”
“This house,” I said, “was purchased through the Waverly Trust. My trust.”
His face hardened. “Which I manage.”
“Managed.”
He stared.
I pulled my wrist free and walked into the living room. Every step hurt, but I kept my back straight. Grant trailed after me, suddenly less drunk than before.
“What did you do?”
