“What about it?”
“You said you kept it for five years. Why?”
He looked away toward the tree.
“At first, I kept it because I was angry.”
I waited.
“I wanted to remember that someone could look at a man who loved her daughter and decide that his love had a price. I wanted to remember that I couldn’t let someone else’s opinion determine what kind of husband I would be.”
He took a breath.
“Then the years passed. Your mother became friendlier. We started doing family dinners. You were happy, and I didn’t want to reopen an old wound.”
“So you put the check away.”
“In a box with the letter and the photograph.”
“Until today.”
He nodded.
“Today I thought it was time she understood something.”
“What?”
He looked directly at me.
“That she was wrong about me. But more importantly, that her fear didn’t give her the right to decide what you deserved.”
