Patricia, Rachel’s mother, stood in the foyer with her finger still raised.
“You’re being dramatic,” Patricia snapped as Nathan reached the porch.
Nathan paused.
The word struck him harder than the shouting had.
Dramatic.
That was what they always called him when he refused to be insulted. Dramatic when he asked why Emma came home quiet. Dramatic when he questioned why birthday invitations arrived late. Dramatic when he noticed his daughter crying after phone calls with her mother’s family.
He looked down at Emma.
“Daddy,” she whispered, “did I ruin the party?”
His chest tightened.
“No, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Behind him, Rachel finally moved.
“Nathan,” she called from the doorway.
He turned just enough to see her. The maroon dress. The perfect hair. The guilty eyes.
For one second, he thought she might apologize.
Instead, she said, “You can’t just walk out with her.”