All the arguments we had over the past months, all his anger about Harold, all his talk about preserving his father’s legacy—it had all been a shield.

He was drowning, and he had been trying to pull me down with him to save himself.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked.

“Because I’m your son,” David said, his voice cracking.

“I was supposed to be the one taking care of things after Dad died.”

“I wasn’t supposed to fail.”

He leaned his forehead against the upper kitchen cabinet, his shoulders shaking.

Rachel stood by the table, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Her anger seemed to fade slightly, replaced by a weary sadness.

“We could have talked about it, David,” she said quietly.

“You didn’t have to bully Mom.”

“I wasn’t bullying her,” he whispered into the cabinet door.

“You were,” Rachel said.

“You made her feel like she was losing her mind just because she wanted to go to her dance lessons.”

“Because she wanted to spend time with Harold.”

At the mention of Harold’s name, David stiffened.