Page 28 of The Husband I Left

“My baby,” she murmurs into my hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

Dad wraps his arms around both of us, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Look at you, Genny-bug,” he says, his voice gruff. “We’re proud of you.”

When they finally release me, Mom holds me at arm’s length, her green eyes, so like mine, studying my face. I’ve never been able to hide things from her; she’s always been able to read me like a book.

“Something’s troubling you,” she says. Her voice is low enough that Dad, who’s now fussing with his camera, can’t hear. “I can see it in your eyes.”

I force a laugh, though it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Why would you think that? I just graduated. I’m excited.”

Mom’s eyes narrow slightly. “I’m not wrong, and you know it. Something is wrong, Genny.”

“Mom—”

“Genevieve!”

Oliver’s voice interrupts whatever I was about to say. I turn to see my husband approaching, a massive bouquet of roses in his arms, red and white, at least two dozen. I’m sure to anyone watching, he looks like the picture of a proud, loving husband. I know better.

He reaches us and presents the flowers with a flourish. “Congratulations, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.”

I take them because I have to, because my parents are watching, because making a scene would mean explaining things I’m not ready to explain. “Thank you.”

Oliver leans in and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering for a moment. “You were amazing up there,” he murmurs.

“It was just walking across a stage,” I reply, shifting away from him.

He turns to my parents, his charm cranked up to full wattage. “Mr and Mrs. Palmer, so good to see you both. Isn’t your daughter just remarkable? I’m so proud of her.”

My father shakes Oliver’s hand, beaming with pride for me. “She always has been,” Dad says.

Mom’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she accepts Oliver’s kiss on the cheek. She glances at me, and there’s a question in her gaze that I deliberately avoid.

“We need pictures!” Dad announces, fumbling with his camera. “Everyone get together. Genny in the middle.”

And so begins the awkward dance of family photos. Oliver’s arm slides around my waist, and I stiffen slightly at his touch. He notices, but his smile never falters. My mother stands on my other side, and I can practically feel her concern radiating off her in waves. Dad directs us through a series of poses: just me, me with Mom, me with Dad, me with both parents, and finally, the complete family portrait.

“Big smiles!” Dad calls.

I plaster on a grin that feels like it might crack my face open. Oliver pulls me closer, his breath warm against my ear as he whispers, “You really are incredible, Genny.”

The camera flashes, capturing what looks like a perfect moment: the successful graduate, her proud parents, her handsome husband. No one looking at that picture would ever guess that I’m mentally calculating how quickly I can pack my things and disappear from Oliver Sinclair’s life.

After what feels like an eternity of photos, Dad claps his hands together. “I’ve made reservations at O’Malley’s to celebrate.”

O’Malley’s has been my family’s go-to restaurant for celebrations for years. Casual and comfortable, it’s the kind of place where my parents have always felt comfortable taking their large brood of children and, of course, later, grandchildren.

Once we all have our drinks, Oliver raises his glass. “To Genevieve,” he says, his eyes fixed on mine, “who has worked so hard for this achievement. I couldn’t be prouder to call you my wife.”

I have to fight to keep myself from rolling my eyes.

Lunch is the usual chaotic affair that happens when all of us get together. Conversations and arguments flow freely. Children compete for their grandparents’ attention. At least two glasses of milk get spilled.

Dad tells the story about how determined I was as a child, that I taught myself to ride a bike because I was too impatient to wait for him to help. Mom adds that I’ve always been stubborn, always wanting to do things my own way. Oliver laughs at all the right moments, but I notice how his eyes keep drifting to me.

If anyone notices I’m quieter than usual, they don’t remark on it.

“Excuse me,” my mother says suddenly, setting down her napkin. “I need to freshen up. Genny, would you like to join me?”

It’s the oldest trick in the maternal playbook, but I play along. “Of course.”