Back in the kitchen, Chloe sat across from me.
“I can tell her no,” I said. “This is your wedding.”
“Tell her she’s welcome.”
My stomach dropped. “Chloe.”
“I mean it.”
“She’s not coming for you. She’s coming to perform.”
“I know.”
“Then why let her?”
Chloe looked at me for a long second. “Because you spent 15 years protecting us from the truth. I think it’s time the truth protected you.”
I went still.
“No.”
“You know what I’m asking for.”
“The box stays where it is.”
“The box, Dad.”
Inside were 15 years of things I’d sent to Elena, all returned.
Birthday invitations. School pictures. Recital programs. Graduation notices. Copies of emails. Returned envelopes. Cards the girls had made before they stopped asking if Mom might come next time.
