“You tried to take my bedroom before the flowers from my husband’s funeral had even wilted.”
“You always get treated like you’re special.”
The bitterness in her voice was older than that morning.
It had been there when David and I missed birthdays because we were deployed, when we could not explain where we had been, and when family members decided our silence meant our work was unimportant.
Harper had turned that old resentment into a story in which I was weak, dependent, and lucky to be tolerated in my own home.
“I did not ask you to admire my work,” I said. “I expected you to respect my grief.”
She gave a sharp laugh.
“Your grief has controlled this house for seven months.”
“No. Your impatience has.”
