Page 38 of Ethan & Grace

“But you don’t have to be.”

“We’ve been together for over thirty years.”

I took another wipe from the packet. “It’s never too late to make better choices. And divorce is always an option.”

She sniffed. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It is easy. Just make a decision and stick to it. You could decide, for example, that we won’t go back into the courtroom, but head somewhere for lunch instead.”

“That sounds lovely,” my mum murmured. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and for a split second, I hoped I’d got through to her. But then she blinked, and the sparkle was extinguished, replaced once more by sorrow, pain, and shame. “But we can’t. You know that. Your dad needs us.”

I pressed my lips together. More than anything, I wanted to shout that my dad didn’t need us at all. If anything, he needed us for the illusion that he had a perfect family. A happily married man made a far better impression in court than a freshly divorced one. But telling my mum that wouldn’t have helped. She had made her decision for today. And once again, it was the wrong one. Even though I wanted to reach out and shake her, I simply nodded. I knew now that change couldn’t be forced. And my mum wasn’t quite there yet. All I could do for her today was stand by her side and hope that one day she would see what I had long since known: that she was just another one of Richard Darlington’s victims.

14

Is Richard Darlington standing trial on false charges?

An online news website comment

Grace

With a heavy sigh, I let the flat door fall shut behind me, then kicked off my shoes and exhaled in relief. I was looking forward to finally putting my feet up after this long day.

There had been a complete power outage at The Darlington that day. I had no idea what had caused it, but we’d been without electricity for hours, making it impossible for me to do my job. Instead, I’d spent my shift trying to calm the guests. And once the power had come back on, the rooms still had to be cleaned.

“Grace?” my mum called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, I had to work overtime today.” I stopped short when I realised my mum wasn’t alone. My dad and Jason sat at the set table, while my mum added the finishing touches to her cooking. It looked like I wasn’t the only one running behind schedule today.

A wave of longing swept over me. Last year, I would have sat down with them without a second thought. I would have told them about the power outage and how some of the guests had kicked up a fuss. But that ease had vanished with Amy’s death.

Jason was glued to his phone. My dad at least managed to hold my gaze for two seconds before looking over at my mum, who had her back to us. Preparing dinner was the perfect excuse to not have to look at me. Until now, I had never hated with such intensity how I looked—like Amy.

“I guess I’ll just head to my room,” I said tightly.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Right on cue, my stomach growled so loudly that everyone heard it. Jason even let out a quiet laugh. “I am, but I want to shower first,” I said, in an attempt to excuse myself. “It was a long day.”

“That shouldn’t take long,” my dad replied. “We can wait until you’re done.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“We haven’t had dinner together in ages.” My dad didn’t let up, which made me both happy and sad. I just wanted to go to my room—or better yet, to Amy’s room—and be alone. It was easier to ignore how strange things had become between me and my family if I wasn’t forced to confront it. But when I looked at my dad, I could see that there was no getting out of this—not without trampling all over his heart, which had already been broken by Amy’s death. And I couldn’t do that.

“OK. I’ll be right back,” I said, and went to my room. I didn’t know if I should rush to get dinner out of the way, or put it off as long as I possibly could. In the end, I opted for the first option. Why prolong the inevitable?

I took a pair of black leggings and the pink “Taylor Swift Eras Tour” hoodie Amy had given me last year from the wardrobe and went into the bathroom. Under the warm stream of the shower, I tried to muster some courage, reminding myself of Ethan’s words: Things couldn’t stay this dark forever. It would get better, and my family would learn to accept that I was the spitting image of Amy. Because there was no changing that, not unless I forked out several thousand pounds for a decent plastic surgeon.

Ten minutes later, I returned to the kitchen with wet hair and fluffy socks. My mum had joined my dad and Jason at the table, but when she saw me, she leapt up to fetch the pots from the stove.

I sank into my chair. The place to my left remained empty.

“As luck would have it, we’re having your favourite tonight,” my mum said, setting down the first of the two pots.

Her words made my stomach growl again, and my mouth watered.

My mum made the best meatballs. I lifted the lid—and froze.