Finnegan
The divorce was finally done. Victoria was out of the picture, legally, publicly and completely. The papers were signed and for the first time in years I felt like I could breathe easy.
It was like being set free from a prison, and I owed it all to my little girl.
I glanced across the table at the private rooftop restaurant, a quiet smile tugging at my lips.
Abigail sat beside me, her hand intertwined with mine under the table, her thumb stroking my knuckles in slow, soothing circles. Henry was telling some ridiculous story involving a golf cart and a peacock, and everyone was laughing.
Well, almost everyone. My gaze drifted to my daughter on my other side. She wasn't laughing.
Her eyes were distant, and she had been like this for a week now, ever since that night in Victoria's garden. My daughter was never quite reclusive, but now she retreated to her room for hours, emerging only when she was called.
Was it trauma? Should I get her a therapist?
