Grace considered. “Carefully. Through counsel, preferably. She may be a witness. She may also have no idea her image was used this way.”
I looked at the foundation website on my tablet. There was Elena, smiling shyly beside Margaret, who wore pearls and a benevolent expression.
Under the photo, a caption read: Changing lives, one future at a time.
I felt something settle inside me.
Not rage.
Responsibility.
“My name is on donor materials,” I said. “My firm’s partners attended their events. People trusted that fund because they trusted me.”
“That does not make you guilty,” Grace said.
“No. But it makes me involved.”
Grace studied me for a moment. “There is a difference between guilt and accountability.”
“I know.”
And I did.
For most of my marriage, accountability had meant absorbing blame to keep peace. Apologizing first. Paying quietly. Smoothing over Margaret’s insults. Explaining Brandon’s absences. Making sure the Hawthorne name remained polished while my own reflection became harder to recognize.
This was different.
This was standing still long enough for truth to catch up.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown number.
Grace shook her head. “Let it go to voicemail.”
I did.
A message appeared moments later. The transcription loaded slowly.
Olivia, it’s Margaret. I don’t know what Brandon has told you, but this is getting out of hand. That education fund was his father’s dream. You have no right to drag it through the mud because you’re angry about a divorce. Call me before you embarrass this family beyond repair.
Grace read it over my shoulder.
“Interesting,” she said.
“That she’s worried about embarrassment?”
“That she called it his father’s dream.”
I frowned. “Wasn’t it?”
Grace opened the second folder. “The Hawthorne Family Education Fund was incorporated six months before your wedding. Brandon’s father died nine years earlier.”