And somehow, they still expected me to believe they had done nothing wrong.
I pointed toward the door.
“Both of you, leave me alone.”
Michael tried once more to speak, but I refused to listen.
Emily left crying.
Michael stayed in the hallway for several seconds before finally walking away.
That night, I sat alone at the kitchen table until well after midnight.
I replayed every memory of our marriage.
Every late night.
Every whispered telephone call.
Every time Emily had hugged Michael a little longer than usual.
I remembered the way she had once told me that he was the only father she had ever truly known. I remembered the pride in his voice whenever he spoke about her.
Had I mistaken their closeness for something innocent?
Had I ignored the warning signs because I was too afraid of being alone again?
At fifty-six, I had never imagined that I would find myself wondering whether my husband desired my daughter.
