My father froze. His silence was worse than anger.
“You went into the cedar closet?”
“Yes, to clean—”
“You destroyed the only thing she had left of her mother?”
Brenda scoffed. “It was just a rag, David. I’m your wife now. I should come first. It’s only a dress.”
He looked at me—pale, shaking—and then back at her. His voice was calm, steady, absolute.
“You’re right. It’s just a dress. Things can be replaced. People cannot.”
She thought she had won. She didn’t know him.
By morning, Brenda’s precious designer handbags—her so-called “investments”—were gone. She stormed into the kitchen, furious.
“David! My bags! Someone broke in!”
He sipped coffee. “I got rid of them. They were holding you back. Here’s a new tote from the grocery store—far more practical.”
Her face turned red. “They were worth fifty thousand dollars!”
“It’s just leather,” he said, mirroring her own words. “Why the drama?”
Then he slid an envelope across the counter. “I didn’t destroy them—I sold them. Every penny is now in a trust for Evelyn’s college tuition, just as her mother would have wanted. And these,” he added, pressing down another set of papers, “are annulment papers. My lawyer is waiting. You have two hours to pack.”
