We left the restaurant in strained silence, the weight of unspoken words heavy in the air. Emily’s questions were held at bay only by Mrs. Whitman’s firm but gentle assurances. “We’ll talk at home, sweetheart,” she said, her voice a testament to the resilience of a mother’s love amidst betrayal.

Back at the house, the atmosphere was somber. Mrs. Whitman tucked Emily into bed, her words full of love and promises of better days. Then she joined me in the kitchen, the space we had so often shared in happier times. Her composure was admirable, but her eyes betrayed her turmoil.