What I still did not understand was why they were standing inside Bennett’s bedroom with something my mother had hidden almost twenty years earlier.
The box did not contain recipes.
It held letters.
Dozens of them.
Each envelope carried a date, and every one was addressed to either Lauren or me.
My knees weakened.
“What is this?”
My father swallowed.
“Your mother wrote them during her last months.”
I looked toward Lauren.
“You knew?”
“How?”
“Dad contacted me.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“Of course he did.”
“Ingrid,” my father said quietly.
“No. You do not get to say my name like that. You left her. You left us.”
“I know.”
“You missed her funeral.”
His expression crumpled, but I kept going.
“You missed Lauren’s wedding. You missed Bennett’s birth. You disappeared, and now you think you can walk into my house and dig through the walls?”
“Then why did you come?”
His eyes dropped toward the tin.
“Because your mother made me promise I would give you these letters when you were ready.”
My anger sharpened.
“When I was ready? I was 19. Lauren was 23. We needed her then.”
“I was a coward,” he admitted.
The simplicity of the answer hurt more than any excuse might have.
“I told myself I was protecting you from more pain. The truth is, I could not face what I had done. Every year I waited, it became harder to come back.”
Lauren spoke quietly.
