If it weren’t for me, he might’ve abandoned the trust entirely. Still, our marriage gives him control of his money. And freedom from his mother’s influence.
That’s something.
I remind myself again of the good he intends to do with that control. The good hewantsto do.
You’re not hurting him, Loren. You’re helping him.
Still, when the phone lights up his face again, there’s a tightness in his expression I don’t recognize.
“Is it her?” I ask.
He manages a tight shake of his head, and my heart sinks.
Have I really done what’s best for him?
“I’m so sorry,” I say. My voice is soft, and my words feel insufficient.
“Not your fault.”
“But I can’t help feeling like your mom hates me already. Maybe she looked at those pictures and videos, saw who you married, and decided I’m not good enough for you. ThatI’mnot good enough, period.”
Even saying this splits my insides wide open. Not literally, but still. I might not be wrong. And that hurts.
“She didn’t justlookat the pictures and videos and make a decision about you.” He sets his phone down. “That I can promise.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m sure that the minute she learned your name, my mother had you thoroughly investigated. Your education. Professional life. Family history.”
I swallow. “Financial?”
“Of course.”
“Medical?”
He averts his gaze. “Everything.”
Heat bolts up my throat, and my mind flashes back to my engagement to Foster. To his questions and hesitations that led to the end. He asked for tests to prove I wasn’t a candidate to pass on my dad’s FTD. And I think, even then, I was unsure about the strength of his commitment.
He wanted assurances about the future no one can promise.
I wanted assurances he’d love me anyway.
Unconditionally.
Because what if I couldn’t have biological children for any number of reasons?
Wouldn’t he stick by me then?
In hindsight, this was a weak argument. And probablyselfish. Or immature. More information was a fair thing for him to request. But I was in denial. And even worse, I was afraid. Afraid of the truth. Afraid he’d leave depending on the answers.
I told myself I’d already learned the hard way that life itself is a risk. That I shouldn’t spend my days anticipating tragedy. I told him I had time to get tested. And if he truly loved me, he’d commit no matter what.
He couldn’t accept that.
I can’t imagine Margaret Adams will either.
To a woman who’s obsessed with legacy and empire-building, I’m a liability. Financially, medically, and generationally.