They didn’t talk about love in that house. Not out loud. But it was there — thick as perfume, clinging to everything and choking the air.
Clarabelle always smelled sweet. She made sure of it. Lip gloss on the rim of every glass, vanilla lotion on her thighs, a giggle tucked behind every closed-door conversation with Daddy.
And Mommy noticed.
Every time Clarabelle leaned her head on his shoulder…
Every time he called her “angel” in that voice he hadn’t used on his wife in years…
Every time Clarabelle asked for something silly — and he gave it to her without question.
She was seventeen. Not a little girl. Not innocent.
But she played the part well.
One night, over dinner, Mommy finally snapped.
“She needs to stop,” she said, too calmly.
Clarabelle blinked at her from across the table. “Stop what?”
“Flirting. Manipulating. Using your father like he’s your boyfriend.”
The fork dropped from Daddy’s hand. The silence was a slap.
Clarabelle smiled — small, amused. “He doesn’t seem to mind.”
“He doesn’t see what you’re doing,” Mommy hissed. “But I do. I see everything.”
“Oh, please,” Clarabelle said, setting down her glass. “You’re just mad he listens to me.”
“Because you lie to him. Cry when you want something. Pretend you’re still his little girl when you’re wearing eyeliner and texting boys and sneaking around after dark.”
Daddy’s voice came like a cold wind:
“That’s enough.”
But it wasn’t.
Because Clarabelle was already standing, walking around the table, wrapping her arms around Daddy from behind like she’d done since she was small.
Except it wasn’t the same anymore. Mommy saw that. She saw the way Clarabelle pressed into him. The way his hand moved up to touch hers — without thinking.
Jealousy turned to fury.
Fury turned to fear.
Because deep down, Mommy knew:
She wasn’t the only woman in that house anymore.