“Michael, for heaven’s sake, help Khloe back to the sofa,” she scolded. “Standing on the hard floor isn’t good for my grandson.”

Then she looked up, and our eyes met.

The bowl tipped in her hands, broth sloshing over the rim onto the hardwood. In that half-second, every clumsy excuse evaporated.

My grandson.

The words hit like blows to the temple. I looked at the husband who’d sworn to forsake all others, at the mistress cowering behind him, and at the mother-in-law bustling around a stranger’s apartment like it was her own nursery.

The last person to know was me.