“You gave her eight years.”
“I gave her 36.”
“She’s dead, Dad.” The words landed hard.
I hated saying them. But somebody had to.
“Mom doesn’t need protecting from what happens next.”
He stared at the table.
I picked up the envelope with my name.
“Why do you keep leaving these?”
Dad looked away.
“Every time, I promise myself I’ll give it to you afterward.”
“And every time you don’t.”
“No.”
I tore it open. There was only one page.
“If you are reading this, I finally ran out of excuses.”
“I loved your mother.”
“I still love her.”
“But loving her has become the reason I am afraid to live.”
“I kept telling myself loyalty meant obeying her last wishes.”
“The truth is, obedience was easier than choosing something she could no longer forgive me for.”
“And if Helen ever sits across from me again, I don’t know what I will choose.”
Dad was crying. So I asked the question neither of them had asked in years.
“Helen, why did you come here last night?”
She looked at Dad. “He called me.”
Dad whispered, “I asked her to dinner.”
“And you canceled seeing him again.”
Helen nodded.
“Why?”
She looked at Mom’s scratched-out face beside hers. “Because I heard Maggie’s voice saying I was taking her place.”
