Chapter 3 - WHY DANIEL MISSED SUNDAY DINNER
When Noah and I reached the car, he was still crying.
“Grandpa hates Daddy.”
“No, sweetheart.”
“He said Daddy’s poor.”
I crouched beside the open back door.
“Listen to me. How much money somebody has doesn't tell you whether they're good.”
He sniffed.
“Daddy's good.”
“The best.”
That finally got the smallest smile.
I buckled him into his seat and drove home.
Daniel called twenty minutes later.
I almost ignored it.
Not because I was angry with him.
Because I knew the moment I heard his voice, I would cry.
I answered anyway.
“Hey.”
There was noise behind him. Voices. A door closing.
“You okay?”
That was Daniel.
Two words and somehow he always knew.
“No.”
His tone changed immediately.
“What happened?”
I told him.
Not everything.
Just enough.
Dad insulted him.
Noah heard.
Dad threw us out.
There was silence.
Then Daniel asked the only question that mattered to him.
“How’s Noah?”
“He thinks Grandpa hates you.”
Daniel exhaled slowly.
“I'll talk to him tonight.”
“I told Dad something.”
“What?”
I hesitated.
“I told him to ask you who he just threw out.”
Another silence.
This one felt different.
“Emily.”
“I’m tired, Daniel.”
“I know.”
“No. I’m tired of watching you let them treat you like you're beneath them.”
“I don't care what Richard thinks of me.”
“Well, Noah does.”
That stopped him.
For years, Daniel’s strategy had been simple.
Let my father talk.
Let Vanessa laugh.
Let them believe whatever they wanted.
But now their contempt had reached our son.
Daniel finally said, “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Maybe it's time Richard understands a few things.”
I leaned back against the driver's seat.
“What things?”
Daniel was silent for several seconds.
Then he said something strange.
“Did your father mention Thanksgiving?”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
May you like
“Interesting.”
That single word bothered me all the way home.
