So I scrap the speech.
Instead, I say, “I came back because you’re a coward.”
Jillian recoils like I’m the one who hit her. “Ex-f*****g-scuse me?!” she hisses. “How dare you?”
“You heard me,” I press. “You’re a coward, Jillian Pierce. You’ve had seven months to drive to New Jersey. It’s an hour away. Less, if you take the turnpike. And you haven’t done it.” She opens her mouth, but I lunge forward to grab her and spin her around, so she’s trapped between me and the garden wall. “Your daughter is waiting for you. She’s been waiting. And you’re standing at playgrounds watching other people’s kids because you’re too scared to go meet your own.”
Her face crumples. She tries to recover, but the mask is gone and it’s not coming back. Her chin trembles. She presses her lips together hard.
“Y
