Not because I expected betrayal. I did it because life had taught me that clear paperwork never damages love unless love depends on confusion.

I also set up a monthly distribution from company profits to run the mansion — salaries, utilities, maintenance, parties, household costs, and a personal allowance Thatcher said would help him restore his career.

Twenty-five thousand dollars moved through that system every month. Eventually he stopped seeing it as help and began treating it as proof of his standing.

He called it our household account. Beatrix called it family money. I called it what it was: a managed expense paid by a company neither of them owned.

Then I stopped saying that aloud. That was my error.

I told myself I was building security for Sabina. A beautiful home. Two parents. A grandmother devoted to tradition, if not affection. A childhood where my daughter would never hear pipes rattling in a freezing apartment or watch her mother decide which bill could go unpaid.