Chapter 8

Margaret Harrington — Gerald's wife — was a composed, careful woman who'd entered the family through an arranged match and made the best of it. She organised my meals and my appointments without being asked and was always there when something needed sorting. The twins treated me like I'd always been around.

My mother requested a meeting.

I agreed. I chose a coffee shop near the hospital — neutral ground, public, easy to leave.

She walked in looking at my clothes and my chair with an expression she didn't bother hiding.

"So you've gone ahead and done it. Climbed up wherever you could. I suppose I should have expected it."

I didn't react to that.

"Mum. You came all this way because the Harrington family didn't turn me away. If they'd thrown me out, you'd never have made the trip."

I let that land.

"The real reason you had me wasn't love. It was insurance. You knew that Gerald's family was powerful, and having his child gave you something to hold onto in case they ever came looking."

She opened her mouth. I kept going.

"You want me to speak to Gerald on your behalf. Put in a word. Help you recover some of what you think you're owed. That's why you're here."

"You're my daughter. I raised you —"

"Tell me what you want. Specifically."

She asked me to advocate for her. To soften what had happened, present it better, see that she was compensated for twenty-five years of single parenthood without support.

I refused.

The abuse that followed lasted several minutes. I waited for it to finish.

Then I took out my phone and pressed record.

"Everything that happened between you and Gerald's mother is, technically, a private matter that the Harrington family chose not to pursue. But it's documented. If at any point you choose to make any part of this public, that documentation becomes available."

I set the phone down.

"From this point on, I'll meet my legal obligations to you. Nothing more."

She threw herself on the floor and wept. She called me ungrateful and cold and every other word she'd used over the years.

I had thought I might cry. I didn't.

There's a kind of grief that, when it's been going on long enough, stops feeling like grief and starts feeling like weather. You don't weep at it. You just wait for it to pass.