“I wanted to talk to you about this terrible joke of Cass’s, leaving part of the Christmasland to you. And the Matthews boy, what was she thinking? The help’s child?!” Miriam’s blood started to boil at her description of Levi. She began to speak, but her mother kept talking.

“Obviously you can’t keep the shares.” Her voice was the one she used to get people to do what she wanted, where she was so reasonable no one dared argue, and she was walking a little too fast for comfort. “You have a perfect thing going in Charleston. That woman you’re marrying is a catch, you wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that kind of security, especially since you insist on playing with glitter instead of getting a career.”

It was funny how her mom sounded exactly like her own inner monologue, but somehow when Ziva disparaged her work, Miriam wanted to lash out. She also wanted to tell Hannah and Noelle she was definitely staying, because anything her mother thought was a terrible idea must have some merit. She hadn’t rebelled as a kid, because it wasn’t safe, and her dad had brutally shot down her early forays into rebellion in her twenties.

Now, at thirty-five, she felt herself itching against the audacity of her mother giving her an edict she expected to be followed.

“Thanks for the input, Mom,” she managed, trying to rein her anger in. “I’ll be sure to add it to my own calculations.”

Her mom stopped and looked at her. “Miriam, I know you will never believe this, but I love you and I want the best for you. How are you going to have that up here, playing hotel?”

That placating tone, and that shameless lie—that her mother had ever, for an instant, wanted or even thought about what was best for her—broke the dam of her anger.

“I have had half a life for years because Dad took everything from me, while you watched. He burned down my career, destroyed my life financially, drove me from my family, and you were complicit in that.” Her voice grew louder. “Was that what was best for me, in your twisted mind?” Miriam had never, in her life, shouted at her mother, but she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—stop herself now.

“I won’t talk to you about this when you’re being irrational.” Her mother huffed and walked away.

If the worst her mother had to throw at her was that she was being irrational, she’d won that round. She could tell, because Ziva had felt the need to swoop off dramatically.

“Why do you even talk to your mom?” Noelle asked, appearing from behind Miriam and startling her.

“Were you listening to us?” Miriam demanded, angry at her mother and Noelle’s intrusion.

“You were shouting in the hallways of my home,” Noelle pointed out, her arms crossed defensively.