No one corrected me.
I looked at my husband. At the man who had watched me compare cereal prices and put things back. The man who had nodded while I said we should skip the premium birthing suite because it was irresponsible. The man who had let me pick up overnight office cleaning shifts at six months pregnant because our checking account kept floating dangerously close to zero.
“You told me we were struggling,” I said.
“Claire—”
“I took a second job while I was pregnant.”
His face changed. Not to guilt. That would have required him to understand what guilt looked like. What crossed his features was irritation at being forced into a new strategy.
“You don’t understand how much it takes to maintain our position,” he said.
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny. Because there are moments when the truth is so grotesque your body produces the wrong sound.
“Our position?” I echoed.
Vivien stepped forward, chin lifted. “Mark’s career requires a certain presentation. There are clients, investors, dinners, travel. You can’t be naive about those things.”
My grandfather cut her off without raising his voice.
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