Page 44 of If You Claim Me
She shakes her head. “No. This was a wedding present from my husband.”
“He built you this house?”
Meems nods. “He was very much about grand gestures. And he wanted to find a way to make me happy.”
“How old were you when you got married?” Mildred asks.
“I was barely eighteen,” Meems replies with a faraway smile.
“I can’t even imagine being married at eighteen.” Mildred laughs.
“Neither could I.” Meems chuckles. “But it was a marriage meant to strengthen our families.”
Like my parents’ marriage.
Mildred’s expression changes. “Did you love him?”
She laughs. “At first no, but I learned to.”
I was young when my grandfather passed. I didn’t know him well. He was sometimes cold and remote, like my father. But everything about him changed whenever Meems walked into a room. “He adored you,” I blurt.
“He learned to.” Her smile is impish and full of secrets. She turns her attention back to Mildred. “My husband was a businessman, and marrying me was an opportunity for our families to grow. I don’t think he ever meant to fall in love with me, and I surely never meant to fall in love with him. But it happened anyway.”
Mildred slips her hand into mine, just like she did at lunch.
I love it and hate it.
It’s not real affection. It’s a show for Meems. But her deep approval makes it worth it. So I don’t pull away, even if eating with one hand is a challenge. It means cutting my chicken with a fork like a toddler with no table manners.
After dinner, Meems heads back to the guesthouse, leaving me and Mildred alone.
“Thank you for spending time with Meems,” I tell her.
“Board games are my happy place.” She shrugs. “And I’ve never had a grandmother—not one I had a chance to know, anyway. Lucy is an incredible woman. It’s not a hardship to spend time with her.”
I want to say something nice, like it’s not a hardship to spendtime with Mildred, either, but the words get stuck in my throat. As if a compliment from me will mean anything. “I hope she makes this easier for you.”
“She’s a joy to be around.” We climb the stairs to the second floor, and Mildred says, “My step count is about to go through the roof.”
“You’ll get used to it after a while,” I assure her.
“It’s never been safe for me to get used to nice things,” she admits. “The past few years, since Flip moved into the apartment across the hall from me, have been the most stable of my life.”
“Because of how you grew up.” This risks digging at her wounds, but I want to understand her.
“My whole life was transient. Before I went to university, I’d never stayed anywhere for more than a handful of months at a time. And the first few years of my life weren’t good. I’m grateful that I have very few memories of the time before my parents died, because the ones I do have are…not worth remembering.” She stops outside her bedroom door and looks up, her soft, dark eyes meeting mine. “I’m a different kind of broken, Connor.”
I’m usually the one putting up walls, but tonight Mildred has beat me to it. I can’t tell if it’s a warning, her fear, or both. “What happened to you?”
The saddest smile tips the corner of her mouth. “I survived when I probably shouldn’t have.” She disappears into her room, the door closing with a quiet snick.
That’s just what I was thinking earlier. I want to follow her inside and learn more about her life. I want to hold her. To hug her. To offer to keep her safe.
But I’m a contract she’s fulfilling, not the love of her life.
I grew up in a home of affluence and excess, with a father who expected perfection and obedience and a mother who desperately wanted to fit into the role assigned to her. My sisters and I were Grace children, and our lives were not our own tolive. I wanted for nothing materially, but things don’t replace love or acceptance.
But to have neither? How bad were Mildred’s first few formative years?
