Then Adele reached for my notebook.
My chest tightened. “Adele.”
She looked at me, silently asking permission.
Part of me wanted to say no.
But Maya had just called me the man who kept six daughters from their mother.
“Your father poisoned you.”
So I gave the smallest nod.
Adele opened it. “Year two. Adele asked why Maya didn’t come to her school play. I told her she was loved. I hope one day that is enough.”
My eyes stung.
Adele flipped to another page. “Year six. Shannon called her teacher ‘Mom’ by accident and cried in the car. I told her families come in different shapes. I waited until she fell asleep before I cried.”
“I told her she was loved.”
At the very bottom of the box was an empty frame with a small card tucked inside.
“The mother-daughter photo we never got.”
“Oh my God. How dare you?” Maya screamed.
