I walked back to the kitchen with my hands clenched so tight my nails bit into my palm, because if I let the tears come, Sylvia would call that weakness too. The truth was, I had chosen this silence. Not the cruelty—never that—but the secrecy. I had once been Anna Thorne, daughter of William Thorne, raised in rooms lined with books that smelled like power and old paper, surrounded by people who spoke in careful sentences because every word could shape a future. I had run from it. I wanted someone to love me without the weight of a name, without the shadow of a legacy. So when David asked about my family, I told him I was estranged. I let him believe my father was nobody special, just a retired man living a quiet life.
For three years, that lie had made me “safe.” It had also made me small.
When I carried the gravy back in, my legs trembled under me. The empty chair beside David looked like a lifeline. I didn’t even think. My body made the decision for me. I pulled it out.
The scrape of wood against the floor cut through conversation like a blade.
Sylvia’s head snapped toward me. “What do you think you’re doing?”