“The box, Dad.”
Inside it were 15 years’ worth of things I’d mailed to Maya, every one sent back.
Birthday invitations. School pictures. Recital programs. Graduation notices. Copies of emails. Returned envelopes. Cards the girls had made before they stopped asking whether Mom might show up next time.
I hadn’t held onto it for revenge.
I’d kept it because someday my daughters might wonder 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 and gripped 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 pressure.”
