My father was by the door, still in his bathrobe. Stephen was still there, awake out of pure professional duty. And on the threshold stood a woman in her sixties, perfectly styled despite the hour, wearing a beige coat and tight lips.
Patrick’s mother.
Alice.
She didn’t come alone.
She brought another man, younger, in a dark suit, holding a thick folder.
As soon as she saw me, she smiled.
Not with shame.
Not with an apology.
With that icy serenity of people who still believe they have a winning card hidden up their sleeve.
“Jenna,” she said, as if she’d come over for coffee. “I’m afraid we all reacted poorly last night. But there’s no need to over-dramatize anymore. I brought my lawyer. There is something you should know before you continue destroying your marriage.”
I felt my father stiffen beside me.
Stephen took a step forward.
I didn’t say anything.
I just stared at the folder in the hands of the unfamiliar lawyer.
Because suddenly I understood two things at the same time: that Patrick had talked too much during the night… and that his mother’s family wasn’t coming here to
beg.
They were coming to fight for something they believed they could claim.
