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 made before they stopped asking whether 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’d tried.
And I wanted to be able 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, gripping 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 weight.”
“The box is just proof.”
Adele opened her folder and pulled out a printed message.
