Maya hadn’t reached out in years.
Yet there it was, a message from her.
“I’ll be at our daughter’s wedding, Robert. How would I look in front of my new family if I skipped an event like that, right? I expect no drama from you.”
“Dad?”
Adele appeared in the doorway holding a folder of wedding receipts to her chest. At 28, she still had a way of catching me off guard with how beautiful she was.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I’ll be at our daughter’s wedding.”
“It’s your mother.”
“What did she want?”
I passed her the phone.
She scanned the message. “She said ‘my new family.’”
“I saw.”
“Not ‘I miss you.’ Not ‘I’m sorry.’ Not even ‘Can I come?’ She’s bringing Harry.”
“What did she want?”
“I’d bet on it.”
Harry was the man Maya had run off with — her boss, the one with the car, the trips, the money, the life she claimed she was owed.
