Chapter 3
Helen pushed past him and walked straight to the master bedroom.
Her side of the closet was empty.
All her clothes. Her uniforms. The boxes of letters they had exchanged through every deployment. Gone.
She spun around.
“Where is everything?”
“Put away,” Grant said from the doorway. “It’s easier this way.”
“Easier for who?” She walked up to him until they were face to face. “Did you tell her you were still married? Or did you pretend I was dead?”
Grant’s expression cracked for just a second.
“Vanessa knows everything.”
“Then why does everyone call her Mrs. Whitmore?”
“Because she’s been here. She’s been running the events, meeting the partners, supporting the company while you were gone!” He raised his voice now. “You were never here, Helen! You chose your career over us over and over again!”
“I chose to serve my country! I chose to protect this family so you could build your business!”
“And I chose someone who actually shows up!”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Helen stared at him. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just looked at the man she had given her whole life to and realized she didn’t know him anymore.
Madison ran into the room.
“Stop it! Please just stop!”
Grant looked at his daughter and his face softened.
“Maddie, go to your room. This is between your mother and me.”
“No!” Madison cried. “I’m not going anywhere! She’s wearing Mom’s star pendant! She’s answering to our last name! You act like Mom doesn’t exist!”
Grant stepped forward.
“You don’t understand the sacrifices I’ve made for this family. You don’t understand what I’ve had to do to keep everything going.”
“Then explain it!” Helen yelled. “Explain why you erased me from my own life!”
He opened his mouth to speak—then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Vanessa.
He didn’t hesitate. He answered it right there in front of them.
“Hey... yes, she’s here... I know. I’ll handle it... don’t worry.”
He hung up and looked at Helen like she was an intruder.
“She’s on her way over.”
Helen’s blood ran cold.
“Get out,” she said. “Both of you get out of my house.”
“This is my house, Helen. And you’re not going to make a scene.”
Before she could reply, a car pulled up the driveway.
The front door opened.
May you like
Vanessa walked in like she belonged there.
And in her hand, she held the family photo that had sat on their fireplace mantel for twenty years—with Helen’s face cut out.
