The House Where Worth Lives
We drove with the quilt folded like a flag on my lap. In the driveway, beneath Henry’s faithful oak, I tried to give him an out. “You’re upset. Talk to her tomorrow.”
He shook his head, eyes shining. “You taught me love is a verb, Grandma. If she can’t respect you, she can’t love me.” Inside, he spread the quilt across the couch, smoothing every imperfect stitch with the same hands that once built model houses—and would again.
The Video and the Mirror
Someone filmed it, of course. By morning the world had opinions; by evening the Whitmore name had a new association—price without worth. Where orchids once grew, investigations bloomed. Cassandra’s messages lit up Liam’s phone—angry, pleading, transactional. He read them at my kitchen table, sipping tea from mismatched mugs. The grief melted; relief took its place.
