Then I remembered how my father used to look at Mark whenever he thought nobody was watching.
My father had never fully trusted my husband.
For thirty-one years, I had defended Mark against that suspicion.
Now, sitting beside my son in a cemetery, I wondered whether my father had noticed something I had spent too long refusing to see.
“Grandpa hated Dad,” Daniel said suddenly.
Despite everything, a small, painful smile crossed my face.
“He didn’t hate him.”
“He absolutely hated him.”
“He thought your father was arrogant.”
Daniel let out a bitter laugh. “Mom, that’s your way of saying he hated him.”
I looked toward the headstone.
My father had been a quiet man. He wasn’t wealthy, but he was careful with money, loyal to his family, and uncomfortable around people who needed everyone else to know how successful they were.
At my wedding, nine years before he died, he had pulled me aside while Mark greeted guests.
