Page 51 of Unwrapped

“Sophie is in the middle of it whether you like it or not.” Elena’s eyes flash. “She’s my daughter. She’s living in my house⁠—”

“It’s not your house.”

“—with my husband, celebrating Christmas like I never existed, and you have the nerve to tell me about boundaries?” She turns to Sophie, her expression changing again, suddenly wounded and maternal. “Honey, I’m not trying to fight. I just want what’s fair. For both of us. Don’t you think I deserve that? After everything?”

Sophie sighs. “I think you should talk to your lawyer,” she says. “Like Vince said.”

Elena looks at Sophie like she’s been slapped, and I watch something shut down behind her eyes—a door closing, a decision made.

“So that's how it is,” Elena says quietly. “You're taking his side.”

“Mom, there aren't any sides.”

“Of course there are sides. You two have made that perfectly clear.” She looks around the room again, taking in the tree and the decorations. “You've built this lovely little life together, and apparently there's no room for me in it.”

“Elena,” I say, “you chose to leave.”

“And you've never let me forget it, have you?” She turns back to Sophie. “I'm your mother. I shouldn't have to beg you to care about me.”

Sophie looks stricken.

That's enough. Elena came here to argue about money, and now she's punishing her daughter for refusing to participate. I've spent this entire conversation trying to reason with her, and all I've accomplished is giving her more opportunities to hurt Sophie.

I'm done.

I walk to the front door and open it.

“You need to leave,” I say. “Right now.”

“You can’t be serious!” She stares at me from the middle of the living room. “You think you’re going to throw me out?”

“If you won’t leave voluntarily, yes.”

“This is my house too.”

“This is not your house.” I keep my voice level. “If you’re still here in five minutes, I’m calling the police. You’re trespassing, Elena. I’ve asked you to leave, and you’re refusing.”

At first, she doesn’t move. She stands there, her face flushed with outrage, and I can see her weighing her options—the scene she could make, the performance of wounded dignity that might still salvage something for her. Then something deflates in her. She recognizes, finally, that I mean it. That the man standing in the doorway with his hand on the knob is not the man who once loved her. That man is gone, and in his place is someone who has run out of patience, out of charity, out of fucks to give.

“Fine.” The word is sharp and bitten off. She grabs her coat from the couch and shoves her arms into the sleeves. “Fine. I see how it is. I see exactly how it is.”

She picks up her purse and stalks toward the door, her heels striking the hardwood like gunshots. At the threshold, she stops, and turns back to Sophie.

“I hope you’re happy,” she snarls. “With your new family. Your new loyalties. I hope it was worth it, Sophie. I really do.”

The words hit me harder than Elena could possibly know. She has no idea what she's accusing Sophie of, but I do. And standing here, watching my wife condemn her own daughter for choosing me, I feel a surge of shame that nearly takes my breath away.

Sophie says nothing. She doesn’t move. She stands in the living room with her arms wrapped around herself, and the look on her face is one I’ve seen before—the particular blankness that means she’s feeling too much to show anything at all.

I hold out my hand to Elena. “The key.” It’s not a request.

She hesitates, and then reaches into her pocket, pulls it out, and throws it at my chest. It bounces off and clatters to the floor.

“I never want to set foot in this house again anyway,” she says. “Consider yourself lucky.”

She turns on her heel and marches down the front steps toward a black car waiting in the driveway, its engine running. I hadn't even realized she'd arrived with a driver. Apparently, she's kept him waiting through the entire confrontation. She yanks open the rear door, climbs inside, and slams it behind her.

I close the door, lock it, and pick up the key from the floor and set it on the console table.