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Back The Favorite Daughter Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Booklist
  4. Dedication
  5. Quote
  6. SUNDAY
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. MONDAY
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. TUESDAY
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. WEDNESDAY
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. 32
  42. 33
  43. 34
  44. THURSDAY
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. 40
  51. 41
  52. 42
  53. EPILOGUE
  54. DEAR READER LETTER
  55. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  56. READERS GROUP DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  57. Best Day Ever

My bet is he won’t have Kylie on his arm. We’ll see.

THURSDAY

GRADUATION DAY

35

10:00 a.m.

I’m alone upstairs in the kitchen. The couch was empty when I came through to make coffee. I’m not even sure if David will sit with me at graduation after our grand finale fight over his parents. We’ll see.

Sam’s text was the first of the day. “Do you need a ride to graduation, Mrs. H.?”

I decide to be polite in case someone needs to interview him later. He’ll remember me as a grief-stricken mom, terrified of sitting on the ocean side of cars, terrified of driving, of leaving the house.

I text: I’m going with my husband. And good news. I’m going to start driving again. It’s time. Best wishes on your education. Nice. Dismissive. Hopefully he’ll go away and I won’t have to block him.

He texts: Okay. Thank you. I’ve learned a lot driving you this year, watching over you. Getting to know you so well. Congrats!

Does he think he knows me? I suppose he thinks he does, silly boy. And congratulations? Oh, I suppose he means congratulations on Betsy’s graduation. Whatever. It’s her achievement, not mine. A fleeting moment of success in the midst of a lifetime of Betsy failures. Does Sam want a tip? I need him on my side, proof of my complicated grief, you know, just in case someone would ever suspect me of anything. Which nobody would, of course.

I text Sam: I’ll mail you a tip.

Sam texts: Thanks. And Jane?

I don’t have time for this. I text: What?

I’m standing in the kitchen—the very cleanly swept kitchen—wearing shoes just to be cautious. I’m also wearing a brand-new dress. It’s blue, like my eyes, bright and clear this morning. My makeup is perfect and my hair is curled in waves. I’m ready for what could turn out to be one of the best days of my life. I need to look good. And I do.

Sam texts: I know what happened. You do, too. Poor Cash.

I swallow, jab at the letters with shaking fingers as a chill races down my spine.

I text: Are you threatening me? I don’t understand. I didn’t do anything to Cash.

The doorbell rings. I have no idea who would be here, but I take three deep breaths. Sam is an idiot dog lover, that’s all. I shouldn’t have kept him around so long, let him become like part of the family. Well, now he’s gone. Good riddance. I search for his contact and block him. Ha.

I saunter out to the gate and open the door. It’s a huge bouquet of red roses. How lovely. I imagine them being for me, from Hoffman.

The deliveryman says, “Here you go!”