“You’re talking.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m okay.”
He checked his watch.
“If you go to the hospital today, my family will say I can’t even manage my own wife.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Not because it made sense.
Because it didn’t.
My health had somehow become a reflection of his reputation.
I asked for my phone.
He told me to rest.
Then he left.
A few minutes later, I heard the lock click.
At first, I thought I imagined it.
I walked to the door.
It wouldn’t open.
“Adrian?”
No answer.
I called his name again.
Nothing.
My phone wasn’t on the charger.
My handbag wasn’t in the room.
Both were downstairs.
I was trapped.
Now Margaret had unlocked the door only to throw freezing water over me.
“I expect you in the kitchen in five minutes,” she said.
Then she walked out.
I stared after her.
Something inside me became very still.
For four years, I had tried to be accepted by the Whitmores.
I had cooked.
Hosted.
Paid bills.
Smiled through insults.
Helped Margaret with medical expenses.
Loaned Vanessa money.
Allowed Adrian to become involved in my company.
Every sacrifice had been described as family.
But when I became sick, family disappeared.
I was useful only when I could provide something.
I forced myself out of bed.
My knees nearly gave way.
I held the wall.
I could hear more than forty people downstairs.
Music played outside.
Glasses clinked.
