“This is your wedding.”
“Then why let her?”
Adele looked at me for a long second. “Because you spent 15 years protecting us from the truth. I think it’s time the truth protected you.”
I went still.
“No.”
“You know what I’m asking for.”
“The box stays where it is.”
“I think it’s time the truth protected you.”
“The box, Dad.”
Inside were 15 years of things I’d sent to Maya, all returned.
Birthday invitations. School pictures. Recital programs. Graduation notices. Copies of emails. Returned envelopes. Cards the girls had made before they stopped asking if Mom might come next time.
I hadn’t kept it for revenge.
I’d kept it because one day my daughters might ask if I had tried.
And I wanted to say yes.
“The box, Dad.”
“That box is ugly,” I said.
“What she did was ugly,” Adele said. “The box is just proof.”
“This is your wedding. Not a courtroom.”
“She’s the one putting you on trial.”
I stood and gripped the back of a chair. “Let people think what they want, hon.”
“No, Dad. You’re exhausted from being both parents to all of us. You don’t need this extra pressure.”
“The box is just proof.”
Adele opened her folder and pulled out a printed message.
“She wrote me two weeks ago.”
I took the paper.
Maya had told Adele I was bitter. That I’d made things hard. That I’d kept the girls close because I wanted to punish her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to know what she was doing first.”
“She wrote me two weeks ago.”
“And now?”
“Now I know.”
Jerome, Adele’s fiancé, stepped into the kitchen with seating cards in his hand and stopped when he saw our faces.
