“Patrick, please,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “These are your grandchildren. This was Andrew’s home too.”
Margaret Callahan stepped beside him, wrapped in an expensive cashmere shawl.
“It was Andrew’s because we allowed it,” she said coldly. “But don’t confuse yourself, Cynthia. Marrying a Callahan didn’t make you one of us.”
My oldest son, Benjamin, thirteen, stepped forward with red, furious eyes.
“Dad said Mom was supposed to stay here,” he said. “I heard him.”
Patrick’s face hardened. A second later, Benjamin stumbled back, holding his cheek.
Something inside me went still.
“Do not touch my son again,” I said, my voice low.
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