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“At the time, your mom and I made the decision to keep these to ourselves. It’s been so long we honestly forgot about them. And for that, we owe you an apology.”
He scratches his cheek, a nervous affectation that only elevates my need to rewind time and escape this moment.
“What. Are. Those.”
He crosses the bedroom and offers me the bundle. I don’t move, staring at the oldest envelopes, slightly yellowed, their corners curling. Then I see what my mind is already rejecting—the handwriting on the front. My name in a familiar scrawl. The return address in Seattle.
“Whatever they are, I don’t want them.”
My dad merely lifts my numb hand and wraps my fingers around the envelopes. There must be fifteen of them. Some of them are thin, some thick.
“You don’t have to read them tonight. Or ever. Hell, you can burn them unread if you want. But they’re yours, Celeste. We got the first one a few months before you married Jer.”
My thumb swipes across the rubber band. “Why, Dad?” I whisper. “Why didn’t you give them to me?”
His expression falls into lines of remorse. For the first time in my memory, I have the thought that my dad looks old.
“I had a feeling. A father’s intuition, I guess. You were so happy, and I knew these had the potential to change that. Then you lost Jeremy, and they kept coming, and… Honey, all I can really say is that I’m sorry. I understand if you’re angry—you have every right to be. So does he.”
When I shake my head, it feels like my brain sloshes around. Unmoored from reality. “I don’t understand.”
But I do.
My dad’s default mode is protective Papa Bear, which only increased when Jeremy died. He sensed a threat to me and acted accordingly.
But understanding that instinct—and loving him for it—apparently doesn’t negate the betrayal that begins as a burn at the base of my skull and travels through my body like rippling currents of electricity.
“Thank you,” I say stiffly, tucking the envelopes under my arm and walking quickly downstairs. I grab my purse and walk into the living room. “Damien, we’re leaving.”
He looks up from the Uno cards in his hand. “But I—” He registers my expression, and his eyes widen with alarm. “O-okay. Raincheck, Grams?”
My mom’s gaze scans my face, then drops to the envelopes. I look away before her expression morphs into what I know will be there: guilt.
“Of course, Damien,” she says, her voice thready.
Ten minutes later, as we walk into our loft, Damien asks softly, “Mom? Are you okay?”
The undercurrent of fear in his voice breaks through the chaos of my thoughts, clearing it away like a stiff breeze. “Yes—God, I’m sorry. That was a really shitty way to end your birthday dinner.”
His dark eyes scan mine. “Grams was beating me at Uno anyway.” He pauses. “I’ve never seen you so mad, though. What happened?”
I think of the envelopes tucked into my purse. I want to hide in my closet with a flashlight and read them—I also want to start a fire with them.
Instead, I take a deep breath and remember that being a good mom means navigating the thin line between honesty and tact. I don’t want to lie to my son, but the whole truth isn’t something I can burden him with, either.
“You asked me a few days ago why I don’t want to be with Lucas. He—well, he was my best friend. Even before we met your dad, we were best friends.”
Damien nods. “I know that.”
I nod back, then power through the rest. “I felt really betrayed when he wasn’t there to support me after your dad died. We fought, and… hurtful things were said. We didn’t speak for a long time. So it was kind of a shock when he came back to town.”
“He’s trying to make things right,” says my suddenly-idealistic son.
“Yeah,” I say weakly.
“What does this have to do with what happened tonight?”
I chew my lip in thought, then say, “Let me ask you this: if you found out some information that you knew would hurt me—or maybe hurt Daphne—would you tell us or keep it to yourself?”
