Still.
Vanessa pressed her acrylic nails deeper into my mother’s shoulder. My mother flinched, and that was when I silently lowered my suitcase to the floor.
“Sign the NDA,” Vanessa said, “and admit you’re moving voluntarily. Or I’ll make sure your son never speaks to you again.”
My mother’s voice broke. “He’s all I have.”
“No,” Vanessa said. “He’s all I have.”
I reached behind myself and turned the front-door lock.
Click.
Vanessa didn’t notice.
Then I pulled out my phone, opened the camera, and pressed record.
For eight months, Vanessa had performed the part of the loving fiancée without a single flaw. Charity galas. Gentle kisses when cameras were nearby. Handwritten cards for my mother. She called herself “family” before the engagement ring had even been insured.
