He looked away.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
While Margaret played the grieving grandmother in public, her arrogance sharpened.
Two weeks after my daughter’s death, she hosted a charity luncheon dressed entirely in black and told guests, “We’re all suffering. Claire’s accusations are simply trauma speaking.”
One guest recorded her.
In the video, Margaret dabbed at her eyes with a linen napkin and said, “Some women weaponize tragedy. I refuse to let my son be ruined by hysteria.”
Daniel stood beside her.
Silent.
That was the final mercy he denied me.
Three days later, he came to the brownstone.
“You need to stop,” he said. “Mom’s getting calls. People are asking questions.”
“Good.”
“She could lose her foundation seat.”
“She deserves to lose more than that.”
His expression hardened into the man his mother had raised. “If you keep this up, I’ll file for divorce and claim emotional instability. You’ve been erratic. Angry. Irrational.”
I studied him quietly for a long moment.
Then I opened the drawer beside me and slid a thick envelope across the table.
