Chapter 2: The Word She Was Never Supposed to Say
"You have no right." That was what she said.
Dolores didn't move.
She kept the girl pressed behind her, one hand firm across the child's small chest, and she looked the woman straight in the eye.
"I have every right," Dolores said.
"I've been in this house eleven years.
You've been here eight months."
The woman's jaw tightened.
"You work here.
You don't make decisions here."
"Then let her father make it."
The silence that followed was different from the one before.
Heavier.
The woman's composure cracked — just slightly, just enough.
Her eyes moved to the hallway.
Then back.
"He's not home," she said.
But the girl's head lifted.
Because she knew something the woman didn't know she knew.
She had heard the car.
Fifteen minutes ago.
The familiar sound of the engine, the particular way the gate latch caught.
She hadn't said anything.
She had learned not to say things.
But now she looked at Dolores, and Dolores looked at her, and neither of them spoke.
Heavy footsteps crossed the front hall.
The door to the sitting room opened.
May you like
And the girl — for the first time in eight months — said the one word she had been told never to say in front of anyone.
"Daddy."
