“So you protected yourself.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You told yourself you were protecting us because that sounded better.”
He stopped arguing.
I asked:
“Did Mara know Mom died?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I wrote to her.”
I almost screamed.
“You wrote to her?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“After the funeral.”
“What did you say?”
“That her mother was gone.”
“Anything else?”
Dad closed his eyes.
“I told her not to come.”
I could not speak.
He whispered:
“I thought there was nothing left here for her.”
I stood.
“There was me.”
Dad looked up.
“There was always me.”
At the door, he called:
“Claire.”
I stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
I turned.
“I believe you.”
Hope entered his face.
I destroyed it.
“That does not make it enough.”
Then I left.
I sat in my car outside Willowcrest for almost an hour.
Sophie had given me Mara’s address.
I could have driven there.
Instead, I went home.
For forty years, everyone had acted as though Mara’s choices and Dad’s choices were the only choices that mattered.
I wanted one night where mine mattered too.
Lily was sleeping over at her mother’s house.
My kitchen was quiet.
I placed the photograph on the table.
Beside it, I placed copies of the letters.
Twenty-three attempts.
For years, I had blamed Mara for silence she had not chosen.
Then anger corrected itself.
Not entirely.
Because after 1996, Mara had stopped trying.
She knew Dad was capable of lying.
She was an adult.
Telephones existed.
Directory assistance existed.
Friends existed.
Later, the internet existed.
She had reasons.
But reasons were not the same as no responsibility.
I slept badly.
The next afternoon, someone knocked.
Not rang.
Knocked.
Three slow taps.
I knew before opening the door.
