The engagement ring box hit the hardwood floor with a sharp, hollow snap, but it was the silence that followed that was truly deafening.
Noah, my eldest by three minutes, stood front and center. He had his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored winter coat, looking up at the towering, pale figure of Marcus Reynolds. With the innocent, brutal honesty that only an eight-year-old possesses, Noah tilted his head and asked the question that froze the room.
"Are you the man who told Mommy she was worthless because she was having us?"
A collective gasp echoed through the sprawling Boulder living room. Patricia, Marcus’s mother, grabbed the edge of the marble entryway table to keep her balance, her face completely drained of color. The blonde fiancée—whose name I would later learn was Chloe—stepped back from Marcus as if he had suddenly caught fire.