The front door felt heavier than usual.
Emma stood there for a full minute before ringing the bell. Her palms were slick with sweat despite the cool air. The box of letters from Michael sat in the passenger seat of her car, unopened since Wickmere.
This wasn't going to be a conversation.
It was going to be a war.
⸻
Grace opened the door in a navy cardigan and pearl earrings, her usual armor of grace and composure fully intact.
"Emma." Her voice was polite, almost cautious. "Is everything alright?"
"No," Emma said flatly. "We need to talk. Now."
Grace stepped aside without a word.
Emma entered and walked straight into the sitting room. The room was exactly as it had always been—neatly arranged, museum-quiet. A photo of her and Richard sat on the mantel, smiling at nothing.
"Would you like tea?" Grace asked.
"No. I want the truth."
Grace's face tightened. "About what, darling?"
Emma turned. Her hands shook as she pulled out the letter from Michael—the very first one James had given her. She placed it gently on the table.
"This."
Grace stared at it but didn't touch it.
"Where did you get that?"
"From his nephew. The one you never told me about. Just like you never told me who my real father was."
Grace sat down slowly. "Emma…"
"No." Emma's voice cracked. "Not this time. Don't speak to me like I'm still ten and too fragile to handle things. Just answer me. Why did you lie?"
Grace was silent for a moment. Then: "Because I had to."
"You didn't have to do anything. You chose this. You chose to erase him."
Grace's voice grew tight. "He was unstable."
"He was grieving. He loved me."
"He was obsessed with you."
Emma's jaw tightened. "He filed for custody. He didn't give up. You painted him as dangerous."
Grace stood now, her mask slipping. "He was dangerous, Emma. He followed us. He sent letters. He wouldn't let go."
Emma stepped forward. "He was your child's father. Of course he wouldn't let go!"
"You don't know what it was like!" Grace snapped, voice trembling. "I was nineteen. Alone. My parents disowned me when I got pregnant. Michael said he loved me, but he couldn't handle the pressure. He would scream. Punch walls. He threatened to take you and disappear."
Emma flinched.
"You expect me to believe that?" she asked softly.
"I expect you to believe I did what I thought was right."
"For you, or for me?"
Grace sat again, suddenly tired. "Both."
"I don't believe you."
Grace looked away. "Richard was the only stable thing in our lives. When he offered to raise you as his own, I said yes. I wanted you to have a name that meant something. A safe life. Not… not the chaos Michael brought."
Emma's voice wavered. "He watched me grow up from a distance. Every birthday, every school recital. He never gave up. You let me think I was unwanted."
"You were never unwanted."
"You let me think I was unloved." Emma's voice cracked fully now. "Do you know what that does to a child?"
Tears welled in Grace's eyes. "I thought I was protecting you."
Emma shook her head. "No. You were protecting yourself. From judgment. From scandal. From discomfort."
They sat in silence, time stretching between them.
Then Emma pulled a photo from her coat pocket—the one of her holding the stuffed bunny, taken from across the street.
"He was there," she whispered. "That day. I didn't even know."
Grace looked at it—and something in her face broke.
"I was terrified," she said softly. "I knew he watched you sometimes. I just hoped he'd stop."
Emma felt no sympathy.
"You let me live a lie."
Grace stood again, her voice steadier now. "And what do you want from me, Emma? Forgiveness? An apology? Or do you just want to punish me for loving you the only way I knew how?"
Emma stared at her mother—this woman who had built a house of silence and secrets and called it protection.
"I want you to tell the truth," she said. "To me, to yourself, and to anyone who ever wondered what happened to Michael Morgan."
Grace didn't reply.
Emma walked toward the door, pausing in the hall.
"One more thing," she said. "Olivia knew. You brought her into this. And that betrayal? It runs deep."
She left without waiting for a reply.
⸻
Outside, Emma stood on the lawn, air biting at her cheeks.
Inside, her mother stood at the window, watching. She didn't cry. She didn't chase after her.
Because Grace Clarke had never been the chasing type.
But Emma Clarke wasn't standing still anymore.