Beverly grabbed Wesley’s arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve as she pointed a trembling finger at Serena. “Tell them, Wesley! Tell this woman and these people that this is your house and she has no right to treat me like a common intruder.”
Wesley looked at his mother, then at the officers, and finally at the porch floorboards where a small crack in the wood seemed to fascinate him. The silence stretched until the only sound was the rhythmic scraping of the locksmith’s tools against the brass plate.
“I told her I handled the finances,” Wesley admitted quietly, his voice so thin it barely carried to the edge of the porch. “I wanted her to think I was the one providing for the family so she would respect our life here.”
Serena felt the weight of that confession hit her harder than the water had the day before. He had traded her reality for his mother’s approval, allowing a lie to fester for months because it made him feel more powerful.
“So you let her insult my career and call me a guest in my own home just to protect your ego?” Serena asked. Wesley didn’t look up, which was the only answer she needed to know that their marriage had been a performance he was tired of playing.