Chapter 4: Her Own Things

I went back to my father's house on Monday afternoon, because my keys, my passport and my mother's jewelry box were still inside.

Malcolm parked across the street and turned off the engine.

"I'll wait here," he said. "If you want me, wave."

"Why wouldn't I want you?"

"Because it's your house," he said. "And you should walk in the way you want to."

It was the first time anyone had told me that.

I crossed the street in jeans and a borrowed jacket, and rang my own front doorbell.

The housekeeper opened it.

She had worked for us since I was nine, and she looked at me.

"Gillian," she whispered. "He's in the dining room. They're all in the dining room."

They were.

My father sat at the head of the long table with his reading glasses on, and Chandler sat on his right.

Lydia sat on his left, in a silver-grey dress, with a plate of strawberries in front of her.

On the sideboard behind them, two caterers were still packing up the wedding favors.

Small boxes of chocolate, tied in ivory ribbon, with my name and Damian's printed on the top.

I looked at those for a second too long.

"I've come for my things," I said.

My father didn't look up from his papers.

"Your things were bought with Whitman money, Gillian. You can have what's in your room, and then you can leave."

"I don't want what's in my room. I want my passport, my keys and my mother's jewelry box."

The word mother changed the air.

Chandler's hand tightened on his fork.

Lydia's strawberry stopped halfway to her mouth.

My father took off his glasses.

"Her name is not spoken in this house," he said.

"It's not her name," I said. "It's her box."

"That box belongs to the family."

"I'm family."

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