I called Mark with my hands shaking.
Fourteen months of resentment lined itself up inside me.
Miranda trying to be Zoe’s friend instead of her stepmother.
Miranda buying clothes I’d already said no to.
Miranda telling me I needed to “trust Zoe’s choices.”
This time I was going to threaten him with a lawyer.
And I was going to enjoy saying it.
Mark answered.
“Hey—”
“Did you know your wife gave our 16-year-old daughter $280 to get lip fillers?”
Silence.
“Mark?”
“Are you home?”
“What?”
“Is Zoe there?”
“Of course she’s here. Where else—”
“I’m five minutes away.”
“Mark, I swear to God—”
“Isabella, please.”
Something in his voice stopped me.
“Don’t do anything until I get there.”
He arrived in four minutes.
He walked through the kitchen door without taking off his shoes.
Zoe stood beside the counter.
He didn’t look at her lips.
Not once.
I watched him deliberately avoid them.
Instead, he looked at me.
“Can I go into your basement?”
“What?”
“The basement.”
“Your daughter just came home with—”
“I know. But two weeks ago she asked me how old you were when we met.”
I stared at him.
“Then she asked if you always looked like you do now. She asked if we still had pictures of you from when you were her age. I thought it was a weird question. Now I don’t.”
