When the door opened, Desmond’s mother, Evelyn, stepped inside. His face turned crimson. Years earlier, Evelyn had gone through cancer treatment herself, and I had been the person driving her to appointments whenever Desmond was “too busy.” I had called her that afternoon and told her exactly where he had made Rosemary sleep. She walked past him, went straight to my mother, hugged her carefully, then turned around and asked, “When did being the man of the house start meaning humiliating a sick woman?”
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