Meanwhile, at Birchwood Lane, Vivian had moved beyond the guesthouse and into something dangerously close to performance motherhood. She walked the babies in the garden wearing cream sweaters and soft smiles. She told neighbors she was “helping the family heal.” She corrected a pharmacy clerk who called her Miss Holloway by saying, “Actually, it’s basically Mrs. Ashford in practice.”
One Saturday morning Dorothy arrived for her supervised visit and found Colleen’s photographs removed from the mantel.
Every single one.
Wedding picture gone. Maternity photo gone. Colleen laughing at a pumpkin patch gone. Even a candid snapshot of her barefoot in the backyard, one hand under her enormous belly, gone.
In their place stood neutral ceramic vases and abstract art in beige tones.
Dorothy turned slowly toward Vivian.
“Where are they?”
Vivian blinked, all innocence. “Grant thought the house needed less… sadness.”
Dorothy looked at her for a long moment. “My daughter is not sadness.”
Vivian shifted but said nothing.
Dorothy crossed the room, picked up Theodore from his bassinet, and held him close enough to hear his breathing.