I contributed more to our household than Ethan had ever known, though my salary flowed into a protected account under the financial arrangements recommended by the Marshals Service.
And I barely spoke at Whitmore family events because Margaret used conversation the way some people used knives.
Carefully.
Repeatedly.
With pleasure.
“You came here six hours after I underwent emergency surgery,” I said slowly, “to pressure me into surrendering my newborn son.”
“Pressure?” she scoffed. “I am offering you relief.”
“I don’t need relief from my child.”
“You will.”
She leaned closer, and her voice dropped.
“You have no idea what twins cost. Ethan already pays for your clothes, your food, your little hobbies—”
