Chapter 6: The Conversation Upstairs
Camille was standing near the window when Adrian came in.
She had changed out of her heels.
Her arms were folded and she was looking out at the dark street below, her back mostly to the door.
"Close it," she said.
Adrian closed the door.
"She told you the Christmas story," Camille said.
"Her version."
"She told me what happened with my mother's room."
"I reorganized.
The room was cluttered and I needed—"
"You told Naomi not to tell me."
Camille turned.
"I asked her to let me handle it.
That's different."
"She's not your co-conspirator," Adrian said.
"She's nineteen.
You asked a teenager to keep something from me about my own mother."
"Your mother doesn't like me—"
"My mother doesn't like being moved out of her room at Christmas without being told."
"She has an entire opinion about everything I do in this house.
She treats me like a guest—"
"Camille." His voice was flat now.
Not cold.
Flat.
"I need you to stop explaining and listen to what I'm going to say."
She stopped.
"You built a group chat," he said.
"With my friends.
My sister.
People who sit at my table.
And for eighteen months you told them that Naomi was the problem in this house.
That she made your life impossible.
That she should probably not be here at all."
Camille's jaw tightened.
"Those were private conversations—"
"You told our guests tonight not to speak to her.
In writing.
Before the party." He looked at her.
"That's not a private feeling, Camille.
That's a plan."
"I was managing—"
"You were removing her.
Methodically.
Quietly.
So I wouldn't see it."
Camille unfolded her arms.
"You make it sound sinister.
I was struggling.
I reached out to people I trusted.
I made decisions about my own home—"
"It is not only your home."
"It never feels like mine." Her voice cracked slightly.
"I have tried.
I moved into a house full of her mother's things, her mother's friends, her mother's memory.
I have been compared to a woman I never met, silently, in every room of this house, for three years.
Do you understand what that is like?"
"I understand it's hard," Adrian said.
"And I understand you never told me.
Not once.
You didn't say it was hard.
You didn't ask me to help.
You went to a group chat and started building a case."
"Because you wouldn't have listened—"
"You didn't try."
"I tried the first month," she said, her voice rising now.
"I told you I found it difficult, living with a teenager who clearly resented me.
And you told me to give it time.
So I gave it time.
And nothing changed.
So yes, I found other ways to cope."
"By telling people to ignore her."
"By protecting my peace—"
"She sat upstairs for two hours, Camille.
At the last dinner party.
Two hours.
While our friends ate and laughed and nobody went up to check on her because you'd already told them not to engage." He stopped.
"Is that protecting your peace?
Or is that punishing a nineteen-year-old girl for existing?"
Camille was quiet.
"She's not going anywhere," Adrian said.
"She was here before us.
She'll be here if we fall apart.
And I should have said that more clearly, much earlier, and I didn't.
That's on me." He paused.
"But what you did — that group chat, those messages, tonight — that ends now.
Completely."
Camille looked at him for a long moment.
"And if I can't promise you that?"
The question sat in the air between them.
Adrian didn't answer immediately.
He crossed to the chair by the window and sat down.
"Then," he said quietly, "we have a very different conversation to have."
Camille's eyes narrowed.
"You'd choose her over your marriage."
"I'd choose my daughter over a marriage that requires me to pretend she's a problem."
Camille looked away.
Then, after a moment, she said something much quieter.
"The group chat — Carol called me.
Last week.
She said she was going to tell you."
Adrian looked up.
"She didn't call me."
May you like
"I know." Camille met his eyes.
"I asked her not to."
