“She knew Grandma Evelyn kept letters.”
Thomas corrected her gently.
“Mara.”
Claire looked at him.
“Right.”
Dad stared into his coffee.
“Rebecca called her Evelyn.”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Claire reached into her purse and removed a small notebook.
“Near the end, Mom started writing things down. She said there were stories that had been hidden long enough.”
She placed the notebook beside the box.
I noticed Dad’s fingers tighten.
Claire saw it too.
“I’m not here to accuse you of anything.”
Dad looked at her.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”
“My mother didn’t blame you.”
That seemed to hurt more.
“She should have.”
“No.”
Claire spoke calmly.
“She blamed the time. Her grandparents. Fear. Shame. A dozen adults who thought silence was kinder than truth.”
She paused.
“But not you.”
Dad looked toward the garden.
“I could have found her.”
“She knew.”
“I should have.”
