Chapter 11: The Letter in My Living Room

Then they read Walter’s letter.

The room changed.

Anger did not disappear, but it sharpened into something more painful.

Recognition.

“For Sylvie’s due,” Jeremiah murmured. “He wrote that every month?”

“Yes.”

Adele shook her head slowly.

“So he knew.”

Jeremiah’s voice softened.

“Maybe this was his way of apologizing.”

Chanel looked at him immediately.

“He could have actually said it.”

“And sorry doesn’t need a hiding place,” Adele added.

I folded the letter carefully and placed it on the coffee table.

“No,” I said quietly. “But guilt usually does.”

They all looked at me then.

Not as the mother who managed every holiday, remembered every appointment, and never complained loudly enough to need rescuing.

They looked at me like someone who had been wounded.

And maybe that was the first night I allowed them to see it.

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