“The whole story is worse. I begged you to call. I begged you to send cards. I begged you to remember they were little girls, not furniture you left in a house you outgrew.”
Harry turned to her. “You told me he changed his number.”
“The whole story is worse.”
“I kept the same number,” I said. “Same email. Same house. You just preferred the story where I was the villain.”
Maya whispered, “You’re humiliating me.”
“No,” I said. “You built this lie. We’re just standing where it collapsed.”
Maya turned to Harry.
He stepped back.
No one moved to her side.
Then Jerome carefully lifted the microphone. “I think it’s time for the father-daughter dance.”
“You’re humiliating me.”
Adele took my hand. “You can stop carrying it now.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then let us help,” Shannon said.
That’s when I broke down.
For 15 years, I believed strength meant carrying it all alone.
That night, my daughters taught me strength could come with six sets of hands.
