Chapter 7 - Walking Out Into the Snow
The hallway was lined with framed family portraits.
Photos of Brittany’s lavish wedding in Newport—a wedding Andrew had secretly paid twenty thousand dollars toward when Margaret claimed they were "a little short on the catering deposit." Photos of Mason holding a junior swimming trophy. Photos of Chloe-Ann in her ballet tutu.
There wasn't a single picture of Khloe on the walls.
Not one.
For nine years, I had walked down that hallway and felt a sharp sting in my chest every time I noticed the absence. I had made excuses: *“Oh, Margaret just hasn't updated the frames yet,”* or *“We need to send her more school photos.”* But standing there now, watching Khloe pull on her little winter boots, the truth was as clear as the winter ice outside.
They hadn't forgotten to hang her picture. They had intentionally erased her. Because to acknowledge Khloe would be to acknowledge the child they were actively robbing.
Andrew pulled Khloe’s puffy pink coat from the closet and knelt down in front of her. His hands, which had been steady as stone while confronting his mother, were trembling slightly as he zipped up her jacket.
“Daddy?” Khloe asked, looking into his eyes. “Are you mad at me?”
Andrew froze. His eyes welled with tears—the first tears he had allowed himself all night. He pulled Khloe into a fierce, desperate embrace, burying his face in her woolen scarf.
“No, baby,” Andrew choked out, his voice thick with emotion. “Never. Not in a million years. Daddy is so sorry. Daddy should have protected you a long time ago.”
“I’m okay, Daddy,” Khloe whispered, patting his back with her mittened hand. “I didn’t like Grandma’s pie anyway. It tasted sour.”
A wet laugh escaped Andrew’s throat. He kissed the top of her head, stood up, and took my hand.
As we reached the front door, the heavy oak entrance clicked open behind us.
Brittany burst into the foyer, shivering in her bare feet, her mascara running in black rivers down her neck.
“Andy! Wait!” she cried out, reaching for his coat sleeve.
Andrew turned, stepping between Brittany and Khloe. “Don’t touch me, Brittany.”
“Please, Andy, you can’t do this to me!” she begged, dropping to her knees on the marble floor of the foyer. “If you close my boutique, I have nothing! My husband is already talking about divorce! If he finds out about the loan, he’ll take the kids! He’ll take Mason and Chloe-Ann!”
“Then you should have thought about your kids before you stole from mine,” Andrew said, his voice cold and unwavering.
“I didn't steal it!” Brittany screamed, her voice echoing off the high foyer ceiling. “Mom gave it to me! Mom told me it was family money! How was I supposed to know Josephine left it all to Khloe?! Why would Josephine do that anyway?! Khloe isn't special! She’s just a quiet little weirdo who paints rocks!”
The slap wasn’t planned.
It happened before my brain could even register the movement.
My open palm connected with Brittany’s cheek with a crack that sounded like a gunshot in the marble entryway.
Brittany recoiled, falling backward onto the floor, clutching her stinging face in shock. She stared up at me with wide, terrified eyes.
“Don’t you ever speak about my daughter again,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet hiss. “You are a parasite, Brittany. You have fed off your brother your whole life, and you thought you could feed off my child too. You are done. Your boutique is done. Your luxury lifestyle is done. Start looking for an apartment you can actually afford.”
Brittany didn't say a word. She just sat on the cold marble, weeping silently, holding her red cheek.
Andrew opened the heavy front door.
A blast of crisp, freezing New England winter air hit our faces, carrying the clean, biting scent of pine and fresh snow. It felt like walking out of a tomb and into the living world.
We walked down the brick steps, our boots crunching through the fresh powder. Behind us, standing in the doorway of the warm, lavishly lit house, Margaret appeared.
She stood in the threshold, framed by the warm glow of the chandelier, clutching her cardigan around her frail shoulders. The wind whipped her silver hair across her face, destroying the immaculate bouffant. She looked small. Pathetic. Stripped of all her grand illusions.
“Andrew!” Margaret called out into the dark, snowy night. Her voice was cracked, carried away by the wind. “Andrew, if you walk away now, you are no son of mine! Do you hear me?! You will never step foot in this house again! You will be dead to this family!”
Andrew stopped at the edge of the driveway, right by our car.
He didn't turn around. He didn't look back at the grand house he had helped maintain, or the woman who had demanded his servitude while denying him her love.
“That’s the best Christmas present you’ve ever given me, Mother,” Andrew said into the cold air.
He opened the car door for Khloe, helped her buckle her seatbelt, and closed the door.
He climbed into the driver’s seat. I slipped into the passenger side, locking the doors with a solid, satisfying *clunk*.
Andrew turned the key. The engine roared to life, the heater blowing warm air against our frozen hands. He shifted into reverse, backed out of the long, winding driveway, and turned the car toward the highway.
May you like
In the rearview mirror, I watched Margaret’s silhouette stand in the doorway until the falling snow swallowed her whole, vanishing into the darkness of the night.
***
