In Hildegarde's eyes, Wilfred had always been nothing more than a glorified housekeeper. For five years, all he'd done was cook, clean, and watch the children. He had no skills, no career, no standing.
She refused to believe a man who depended entirely on her would actually dare leave.
What would he eat? Where would he go?
She was convinced he couldn't survive a single day on his own.
"He'll come crawling back tonight."
She lifted Hilary into her arms and turned to face the guests with an apologetic bow. "I'm sorry, everyone. Forgive the spectacle."
"Oh, it's nothing, Ms. Pruitt. Couples argue. He'll be back before you know it."
"Honestly, a woman of your caliber, your looks—married to him? What a waste."
"If you ask me, you and Patrick are the real match."
"Patrick! How about a toast with Ms. Pruitt? A lovers' cup!"
"Yes, yes! A toast!"
Patrick raised his glass, gazing at Hildegarde with practiced tenderness. "Hildegarde, you've put up with so much these past five years. Let me drink to you."
"Thank you, Patrick. But I'm not feeling well. I'll pass."
She shook her head.
Her period had started, and she couldn't drink. Besides, she was still seething.
Wilfred had humiliated her in front of everyone. She wanted nothing more than to drag him back and force him to his knees, to make him apologize in front of every guest.
How dare he?
A man who lived off her charity. A man who couldn't survive a week without her support. How dare he demand a divorce—and act so righteous about it?
If anyone was going to file, it should have been her.
Her gaze drifted toward the door.
Wilfred, you'd better not come back. Because if you do, I'll make you regret it.
The party ended early.
Hildegarde declined Patrick's offer to stay and help. She bathed Hilary, then put her to bed.
The truth was, she wasn't used to caring for children.
For five years, Wilfred had handled nearly everything—both girls. She'd never even changed a diaper.
By the time Hilary finally fell asleep, Hildegarde was exhausted. She had just laid down when—
"Mommy, I'm itchy!"
Hilary wriggled against her like a restless kitten, scratching at her face and arms.
Hildegarde switched on the lamp. Her daughter's face was flushed red, and angry welts spread from her neck down to her chest.
An allergic reaction.