No congratulations.
No concern about my health.
Just the house.
Graham read it twice.
“Does Paige know?”
“She found a medical letter in my kitchen when she came over with Frank last month.”
“And she’s blackmailing you?”
I turned the phone toward him.
He stared at my daughter’s message.
“Jesus, Celia.”
I looked down at the table.
I hadn’t told Paige because I’d wanted privacy while my doctor evaluated the pregnancy.
At forty-six, I knew there were medical risks.
I was frightened enough without my daughter turning every appointment into a family scandal.
But Paige hadn’t asked whether I was okay.
She’d asked whether I planned to keep the baby.
Then she’d started talking about the house.
According to her, Frank had a developer interested in the property.
The old farmhouse sat on eleven acres just outside an expanding commercial corridor.
Apparently, somebody thought it would make an excellent boutique event venue.
