Simon sat beside me and rubbed his face.
“Jen…”
“Don’t.”
He looked up.
“Please don’t tell me she’s just being your mother.”
His hand dropped.
Because for years, that had always been the excuse.
Clara criticized my cooking?
“That’s just Mom.”
Clara questioned the way I decorated our house?
“Ignore her.”
Clara made some cutting remark at dinner?
“She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Simon always supported me.
Privately.
And suddenly, that distinction mattered more than it ever had before.
“I’m not wearing the dress,” I said.
“Of course you’re
