Chapter 6
Diane spent three weeks in the psychiatric hospital.
She called Michael every night, crying, telling him about her therapy, how she was finally dealing with her grief over Robert, how she’d never hurt anyone again.
Michael ate it up.
He visited her every other day, bringing her flowers, her favorite candy, telling her how proud he was of her.
My mom warned him over and over.
“People like Diane don’t change overnight,” she said one night at dinner. “She’s been lying and manipulating for forty years. Three weeks of therapy isn’t going to fix that.”
Michael got angry.
“You just don’t want to forgive her,” he said. “You’ve hated her since the dinner. You want her to be the bad guy so you can be the hero.”
My mom didn’t argue.
She just stood up, grabbed her purse, and left.
I fought with Michael for an hour after that, telling him he was being naive, that Diane was playing him.
He refused to listen.
“Her doctor says she’s making amazing progress,” he said. “She’s diagnosed with severe depression and borderline personality disorder. It’s not her fault. She’s sick. She needs our support, not our judgment.”
Two days later, the hospital released her.
Michael picked her up, brought her straight to our house.
“She can’t live alone right now,” he said, carrying her suitcase into the guest room. “Her doctor says she needs a support system. She’s going to stay with us for a few months. Until she’s strong enough to be on her own.”
I stared at him, shocked.
“You didn’t even ask me?” I said. “This is my house too! She threw water in my mom’s face! She tried to take Evan! She almost killed herself in her bathroom and left us to clean up the mess! And you just move her in without talking to me?”
“Clara, she’s my mom,” he said, his voice hard. “I have to help her. If I don’t, she might try again. I can’t have that on my conscience. Just give her a chance. Please. For me.”
I looked at Diane, standing in the hallway, her head down, looking small and vulnerable.
She looked up at me, her eyes big and wet.
“I’ll be good,” she whispered. “I’ll help with the kids, I’ll cook, I’ll clean. I won’t cause any trouble. I just want to make amends. Please, Clara. Give me a chance.”
I wanted to say no.
I wanted to scream at her to get out, to never come back.
But I looked at Michael, his face desperate, and I couldn’t do it.
“Fine,” I said, turning away. “Three months. That’s it. If she causes one problem, she’s out. No arguments.”
Michael hugged me, tight.
“Thank you,” he said. “You won’t regret this. I promise.”
I did regret it.
Almost immediately.
Diane was perfect.
Too perfect.
She got up at six every morning, made pancakes for the kids, packed their lunches, cleaned the whole house before I even got out of bed.
She helped Evan with his homework, took Lila to soccer practice, remembered every little thing they liked and disliked.
She never mentioned my mom.
Never argued.
Never raised her voice.
Every time I walked into a room, she’d smile politely, ask if I needed anything, then go back to whatever she was doing.
The kids adored her.
Evan started calling her “Best Grandma” every night at dinner.
Lila drew her pictures, taped them all over the fridge.
Michael was happier than I’d seen him in months.
He kept telling me he was right, that Diane had changed, that we were finally going to be a normal family.
But I didn’t buy it.
I watched her.
Every second.
I noticed how she’d flinch when my name was mentioned, how she’d make little comments about how “nice” it was that the kids finally had a “real grandma” around, how she’d “accidentally” throw away my mom’s leftover cake or the drawings my mom had made the kids.
I noticed how she’d stare at me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Cold.
Hateful.
One night, I got up to get a glass of water at two a.m.
The house was dark and quiet.
As I passed the guest room, I heard Diane talking on the phone.
Her voice was low, urgent.
Nothing like the soft, broken voice she used around us.
“Yeah, they bought it,” she whispered. “The poor sap actually thinks I’m better. The wife is suspicious, but she’s too stupid to prove anything. The plan is still on. Just give me a few more weeks. I’ll get the papers signed. Then we can finally be rid of them. Yeah. I love you too. Bye.”
I froze against the wall, my blood turning to ice.
The door creaked open.
Diane stood there, holding her phone, her face pale when she saw me.
For a long second, we just stared at each other.
Then she smiled.
The same cold, calculating smile I’d seen the night she threw water in my mom’s face.
“Couldn’t sleep, honey?” she asked, her voice sweet as poison. “Want me to make you some tea?”
I didn’t answer.
I turned and ran back to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me, locking it.
Michael woke up, confused.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I told him what I’d heard.
Every word.
He shook his head, rubbing his eyes.
“You’re tired,” he said. “You’ve been stressed. You probably had a bad dream. Diane would never say that. She’s been nothing but perfect since she got here.”
“I didn’t dream it!” I screamed. “She’s faking it, Michael! She’s playing you! She has some kind of plan! She said she’s going to get papers signed and get rid of us!”
“Clara, stop!” he yelled back. “You’re being paranoid! You want her to be evil so you can say you were right! Well, you’re not! She’s sick! She’s getting better! Why can’t you just give her a chance?”
We fought for an hour, him calling me paranoid, me calling him blind.
Finally, I grabbed a pillow and a blanket and went to sleep on the couch.
I lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the house.
I knew what I’d heard.
I knew Diane was up to something.
But I had no proof.
May you like
And no one was going to believe me.
Not until it was too late.
