The calmness in my tone seemed to irritate him more than any argument. He expected tears. He expected me to fold. He expected me to apologize in front of everyone and offer Kristen a guest room like a peace treaty.
Instead, I turned away.
I walked to the kitchen counter, where a bottle of chilled Perrier sat among the champagne and wine like the one sober friend at a loud party. I poured myself a glass, watching the bubbles climb, listening to the sharp hiss as the carbonation met the air.
The first sip burned clean and cold down my throat, clearing my mind the way a hard decision clears the fog.
Behind me, Kristen’s heels clicked closer. She had always loved the sound of her own approach, like the world should take notice.
“Hey, Denise,” she called, triumphant. “Didn’t you hear? Dad is serious.”
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t give her the satisfaction.
She came to stand beside me anyway, gazing out the window at the pool as if she were imagining where she’d put her lounge chair.
“This house has three guest rooms, right?” she said dreamily. “And that walk-in closet in the master bedroom… it’d be perfect for my clothes.”