Chapter 2 The Far End of the Table

I used to believe I'd already survived the worst part. I was wrong.

Dinner was worse.

I went downstairs around seven, moving mostly on autopilot. Eight years of following the same routine-even now, with everything else in pieces-had trained my body to keep doing what it always did. I washed my face, tied my hair back, and looked at myself in the mirror. Just one more meal, I told myself. You can get through one meal.

The downstairs rooms were warm and golden. Mary had arranged everything perfectly: candles flickering, china shining, crystal bright enough to sting my eyes. It looked like a family from a magazine, as long as you didn't study it too carefully.

They were all there. Nicholas sat at the head of the table, Mary on his right, her pearls catching the light. Lily sat between them, kicking her feet beneath the table, her cheeks pink from laughing. At my end, in the place I'd occupied for all these years, sat Naomi Carter.

She looked even more beautiful than I remembered. Cream-colored silk, her hair pinned back, her hands resting softly together. Every so often, she seemed to forget something, then remember it. When she did, she smiled faintly to herself, as if she were holding onto a secret.

"Abigail." Mary didn't bother looking up. "You're late."

"It's five past."

"In this house, that's late."

No one laughed. They didn't have to.

And that was when I realized it: no one had put out a place for me.

A maid hurried in, her cheeks flushed, and set a plate at the far end of the table, beside the kitchen door where cold drafts kept slipping through. It was the seat reserved for extra guests-or the staff's children when they happened to visit.

So that was where I sat.

"Auntie Naomi, try this!" Lily speared a slick, syrup-coated carrot and held it up on her fork.

"You go first, sweetheart."

"I already did! It's good, I promise."

Naomi laughed, warm and easy, and leaned in to accept Lily's offering. Mary practically glowed, as if she'd been waiting all night for exactly this moment.

I lifted my spoon. The soup tasted like water from the faucet.

"Naomi, you need more," Mary said, adding another spoonful to her plate. "You're eating for two now. Nicholas, make sure she gets whatever she wants."

Nicholas didn't hesitate. He took the spoon and began peeling shrimp with careful, practiced movements, stacking them on a small dish for Naomi.

"You don't have to," Naomi said.

"The doctor said you shouldn't handle raw shells."

Eight years of shrimp at this table, and Nicholas Winchester had never peeled one for me.

It shouldn't have mattered. It shouldn't have hurt. Still, I sat there with a mouthful of tasteless soup and thought: So this is what it looks like when someone is loved.

"Mommy's soup is too salty," Lily announced.

Everyone went still. Even me.

"I'm sorry, honey. I'll get it right next time."

"You say that every time."

Nicholas sounded casual-too casual, maybe. "Lily," he said without looking up, like he was commenting on the weather.

Lily shrugged. "Auntie Naomi's soup is never too salty."

"That's because Auntie Naomi has a chef," I snapped. I regretted it the second the words left my mouth.

Naomi's face folded in on itself. "Abby, I'm not trying to upset you. I only want to help Nicholas, that's all. He's already been through enough."

Mary joined in, warm and cheerful. "That's Naomi. Some women just have a natural gift for caring."

I placed my spoon on the table. "Mary."

She turned toward me. "Yes?"

Nothing came out. I had nothing at all-except a stuffed folder upstairs marked six months and a husband who hadn't met my eyes once that evening.

"Forget it."

Later, Lily still needed someone to tuck her in. At least that was still mine-for now. Eight years of bedtime stories and goodnight kisses. Her rabbit with the frayed ear. Those small rituals mattered.

I went upstairs and knocked. "Lily? Brush your teeth. I'll read to you, if you want."

The door opened a crack. Lily stood there in her pajamas, book in hand. Her hair was already braided-tidy, and not by me.

"Auntie Naomi did my hair."

"It's beautiful. I can still-"

"She's reading to me. She does the voices better."

I stared at her-my little girl, seven years old, with her father's eyes and my stubborn chin. I knelt and tried to smooth that same strand of hair back into place, the way I always had.

She recoiled.

"Don't."

"Lily-"

"Grandma says you're upset because Auntie Naomi is moving in. But you shouldn't be mad at her. She's nice. She's not like you."

Something inside me cracked. I didn't even have a name for the sound.

"Not like me?" I whispered.

"She doesn't get angry. She doesn't cry in the bathroom." Lily's voice shook, but she continued, as if she'd rehearsed every word. "Grandma says you're sad because you're not a good mommy. Auntie Naomi said it's okay to want a different one."

Footsteps came up the stairs.

Nicholas appeared at the end of the hall, one hand gripping the railing. He had heard. I could tell by how motionless he stood, his face arranged in that blank expression people wear for a terrible photo.

I looked at him. I didn't ask or beg. I only stared, like I was facing a locked door I already knew would never open.

Say something.

His eyes moved to Lily, then back to me. His jaw was tight.

"Lily, go on to bed," he said, soft as ever. "Abby, let's not make this any heavier than it already is."

Then he turned and walked away.

I don't remember getting to our bedroom. Somehow, I ended up sitting on the edge of the bed, my hands still in my lap, staring at the wedding picture on the dresser. Mary had replaced my favorite frame with this heavy black one, cold iron that looked almost like a cage.

My phone vibrated.

Family group chat. I hadn't gotten a message from that chat in years. And yet, there it was.

Mary: Naomi is moving into the east wing on Friday. Have Abigail move into the guest room. She'll be more comfortable there.

Nicholas: Fine. I'll tell her.

I read it.

Then I read it again.

The east wing. My room. The only window in the house that looked out over my half-dead garden.

I'll tell her.

I set the phone aside. I didn't cry-there was nothing left in me for that. I just stood, crossed the room, and opened a drawer.

Then I began packing my things, carefully and quietly-because, I guess, that was all there was left to do.