He had expected me to be embarrassed.
For ten years, Michael had treated my mother’s house like an annex of his police department.
He was the small-town chief, the man people waved to at the gas station and moved aside for at the diner.
He knew how to make his voice fill a room.
He also knew my mother hated conflict enough to swallow almost anything if it meant breakfast could be quiet the next morning.
I had been nineteen when she married him.
I had already left for the Army by then, already learned how to pack a life into one duffel bag, already learned that missing someone did not mean you could save them from every choice they made.
Michael had never liked me.
At first, it had been the usual stepfamily tension.
He did not like my tone.
He did not like that I called my mother directly instead of asking through him.
