Chapter 18: My Father's Table

Tobias's POV

My father's dining table seated twelve, and that night it held five.

He sat at the head of it in a wheelchair he hated.

An oxygen line was taped under his nose, and his cane hung from the arm.

Philippa sat on his right in black, with her back straight.

Linnea sat on my left.

She had worn the navy cardigan again, and under the table her knee was pressed against mine.

I did not think she knew.

I did not move my leg.

"Soup," my father said, to the waiter. "Then go."

The waiter set down four bowls and left.

Nobody picked up a spoon.

My father's lawyer sat at the foot of the table with a leather folder and a pen.

He said nothing, staring down at his folder with rigid discomfort.

"I will say this once," my father said.

"I had a good wife, and I buried her. I had two children, and I thought I had raised them."

He turned his head.

"Philippa, you will not interrupt me."

She closed her mouth.

"I read what was on that screen. I read the file. I know your handwriting, Philippa. I have known it since you learned to write."

He breathed, twice.

"You went through the medical records of strangers and picked a girl to use."

"I picked a healthy woman," Philippa said. "She had nothing to lose."

"She had a life."

"She had a one-bedroom apartment and a coupon binder, Father."

Linnea's knee went rigid against mine.

I put my hand on the table, flat, close to hers.

She did not take it, and she did not move her hand away either.

"You wanted a grandchild," Philippa said. "You wrote it into the trust in front of the whole board."

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