Chapter 4

Back home, I put the groceries away, my mind still racing. I tried to dismiss Mark's words as the ramblings of an arrogant jerk. He was probably just trying to get under my skin, to feel superior. And Martha was just a bitter old woman. It was a coincidence.

I repeated it to myself over and over again, a mantra against the rising tide of suspicion. I love Olivia. She loves me. End of story. I had to believe that. To doubt her was to doubt everything, to let the foundation of my life crack. I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't let them-Martha and her poison, Mark and his smug insinuations-win.

That evening, we all sat down for dinner. I had made chicken parmesan, one of Olivia' s favorites. For a while, there was an almost peaceful quiet, broken only by the sound of forks on plates. Robert seemed to be enjoying the meal, and even Martha was eating without comment.

Then she put her fork down.

"So, Liam," she began, the quiet ending abruptly. "How is the little book coming along? Are you still typing away in that little room of yours, pretending to work?"

I felt my jaw clench. "It's going well, thank you."

"Is it?" she pressed. "Have you sold it yet? Are you going to be a famous author? Or is this just another one of your little hobbies that Olivia has to support?"

"Mom," Olivia said, her voice sharp with warning.

"I'm just asking a question," Martha said, her eyes fixed on me. "It's a valid question. My daughter works hard. She travels for business, she brings home a real paycheck. I just want to know when her husband is going to do the same."

"My writing is a real job, Martha," I said, my voice dangerously low. "It might not be a nine-to-five, but it's work."

"It's a nice story to tell yourself," she sneered.

I tried to stay calm, to do what I always did. Appease. Deflect. "The chicken is good, isn't it? I tried a new recipe."

"Don't change the subject," Martha snapped. "You're not a provider, Liam. You're a dependent. A man should be a provider."

That was it. I could feel the control slipping. But before I could say something I'd regret, Olivia slammed her hand on the table. The plates and glasses jumped.

"I said, that's enough!" she yelled, her voice ringing through the dining room. Everyone froze. Olivia rarely raised her voice. "I am sick and tired of you belittling my husband. He is a wonderful, supportive, brilliant man, and his work has more value than you could ever understand. He supports me in ways that have nothing to do with money. This is our life, our marriage, and you have no right to judge it."

She was on her feet now, glaring at her mother. "Liam is ten times the man you think he is, and if you say one more disrespectful word to him in this house, I will personally drive you to a hotel. Do you understand me?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Martha stared at Olivia, her mouth slightly agape, her face a mixture of shock and fury. Robert looked down at his plate, his knuckles white as he gripped his fork.

Finally, Martha pushed her chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the wood floor. "I've lost my appetite," she said, her voice trembling with rage.

She turned and stormed out of the room, leaving her half-eaten dinner on the table. We heard her footsteps on the stairs, followed by the slam of the guest room door. A heavy, wounded silence settled over the three of us left at the table.